


Zodiac

by Blue_Sunshine



Series: The Desert Storm [10]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Adoption, Hunters & Hunting, Jedi Culture, Lightsabers, Master & Padawan Relationship(s), Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi, Racism/ specism, Shili, Slavery, Space Scotland, Stewjon, Tatooine (Star Wars), Tatooine Slave Culture, Tea, The Dark Side of the Force, The Force, The Light Side of the Force, Therapy, Time Travel, Togruta (Star Wars), Traditions, Worldbuilding, Yoda's People, Young Obi-Wan Kenobi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 14:53:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 71,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19087303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Sunshine/pseuds/Blue_Sunshine
Summary: There is a strange power to the stars you were born under.





	1. Chapter 1

Qui-Gon Jinn does not understand how, precisely, he arrived to the position he was in, but he was beginning to question whether or not his involvement was even necessary at all.

Master Naasade’s progression through physical therapy had been precisely scheduled and followed through, with one or two digestive setbacks, but when the time came to progress from stretches to cold katas to actual sparring…

Well, no one dared enter the ring with him, after what had happened with Master Krell, who was still on medical sabbatical.

Qui-Gon supposes it had been….pity.

Naasade’s padawan was more than eager to assist his master, the prospect drawing him out of the sense of gloom that seemed to cloud him since the unfortunate destruction of his lightsaber, which had yet to be replaced, but had been flatly denied.

As Kenobi’s recovery had been far quicker than Naasade’s, he’d retaliated for that decision by working his way through the senior class of padawans just a little more _pointedly_ than before.

Clearly, he takes after his master.

Padawan Skywalker had been the second to offer, but still lacked the necessary skill and blade discipline required for the careful procession required by recovery, and she so rarely had the time. Her master, likewise, was in an out of Temple of short missions, sometimes with her padawan, sometimes without, and had otherwise been conscripted into teaching classes when she was not dealing with her duties on the Reconciliation Council.

Or, at least, that was as Qui-Gon’s padawan had explained it, when she dragged him to the salles and insisted he offer his assistance.

In actual practice, however, Qui-Gon felt Naasade seemed to need him very little at all, and felt much like a automated prop. The other mans brow was pale and sweaty, but his gaze was distant, and his mouth pinched with tight impatience as he moved. His motion was fluid, and quick, but he lacked the sheer force he’d carried the last Qui-Gon saw him in the salles, and winded far more easily, his endurance in tatters.

“Are you certain a droid-“

“You help me focus, Master Jinn.” Naasade cuts him off quietly, blinking his gaze into the present moment. That was another discomfiting thing about Naasade, Qui-Gon thought. He spent far too much of his time with his focus elsewhere or elsewhen, and so very rarely in the Now.

“Do I?” Qui-Gon challenges lightly.

“You remind me very much of my master.” Naasade says, to Qui-Gon’s utter shock, with a sad, wry twist to his mouth that masqueraded as a smile.

Qui-Gon doesn’t know how to respond to that, or to the shuttered look in the other mans gaze, and so he doesn’t. He merely twirls his lightsaber, lifts his guard, and continues to the practice.

~*~

“Shmi _Skywalker_.” Shaak Ti growls, irritably tapping at the doorkey with force, and Ben pauses behind her in the corridor, brows lifting of their own accord.

“Problem, Master Ti?”

The togruta trills lowly at him and turns, unsurprised to find him lurking there. Ben does, at times, envy her species. “I am locked out of my quarters because my padawan sees fit to recode the doorkey.”

Ben laughs. “Oh, allow me.” He says. “This is likely my fault.”

“Is it?” Shaak Ti asks, tipping her montrals up proudly.

“It’s a sort of game my padawan and I play, and he’s been staying here the last few nights, hasn’t he?” Ben inquires idly, and she nods. “Shmi likes to throw us the odd trick or two.” He says.

“Ah.” She flashes fang for a moment before accepting that for what it was. “I suppose that’s a clever way to improve. If inconvenient.” She adds.

Ben takes a few minutes to slice his way through Shmi’s traps and firewalls, and Shaak Ti hums jut at the lowest pitch of human hearing.

“Why has Obi-Wan been staying here?” Ben inquires. “I had thought he was under Master Tholme’s tutelage at the moment?”

“Kindly don’t point out the fact that your padawan has been avoiding reassignment to an official temporary master.” Shaak Ti warns him, having taken her own turn at filling in, as had Master’s Ni Hiella and Tahl.

“Then I should also not point out that he literally ran away when your council attempted to force the issue against good judgement?” Ben remarks amusedly, though officially the story was that Fett had _requested_ Obi-Wan’s assistance when the padawan disappeared for two weeks.

“Good judgement is that even if it were temporary, an official master would offer him stability and guidance and perhaps even some necessary distance. Ben, even _I_ am concerned at the level of attachment between the two of you.” Shaak Ti tells him. “I do not doubt his character, or his heart, but he can’t walk away from you, and that may do him great harm some day.”

“He will learn to let go.” Ben insists. “But sometimes, Master Ti, we also need to know when to hold on.”

Shaak Ti sighs, silver eyes subdued, and nods, inviting him into her quarters with a gesture. “He was here for Anakin.” Shaak Ti answers the original question. “Anakin’s been having nightmares.”

“Nightmares?” Ben questions, concern in his voice but a cold dread wrapping around his heart. “About who?”

“Who?” Shaak Ti repeats, puzzles at his choice of words, and then shakes her head. “We don’t know. He wakes in a terrible fright, but he can’t articulate what he’s dreaming of, and by the time he’s calm enough to, he doesn’t remember.”

“That’s….unfortunate.” Ben says awkwardly, rubbing one hand across his chest against the chill residing beneath the skin.

Shaak Ti nods in agreement, and sets her kettle to boil, a shallow ceramic piece from her homeworld, marked in the bold patterns favored by her people. They are both quiet, watching it begin to steam, the togruta far more sensitive to when it starts to whistle than his human ears are.

“Was there a reaon you were haunting me in the hallway?”

“One has to be dead to haunt someone, Master Ti?”

“Is that it? Then what is the word?” She inquires idly.

Ben’s lips quirk. “Shadowing.” He says, and she gives him a flat look. “I actually came to suggest something to you.”

“That could not wait till supper?” Shaak Ti questions, rmoving the kettle from the heating element.

“That would not be appropriate to suggest at supper.” Ben replies neutrally, fetching cups from the cupboard and handing Shaak her favorite. They were more of small, shallow bowls than cups, really, and almost tear-drop in shape, but in matching bold patterns to the shallow teapot.

“Now I’m intrigued.”

“Take Shmi back to Tatooine.”

“Now I’m not intrigued.” Shaak Ti returns bluntly, spilling shock in the Force, but anger on her face.

“I don’t mean to say send her back, Shaak.” Ben explains. “ _Take_ her there.”

“Why?” Shaak Ti demands. “There is nothing there for her but misery.”

“For the same reason I have to bleed all my torments into a holocron.” Ben replies. “These things have to faced, or they are a wound that will fester. Tell me there isn’t still a distance around her that you cannot cross, no matter how much you reach out to each other?”

Shaak Ti looks back at him with a carefully aloof expression. “I had…” She pauses, biting down on her lip, and glowers at him. “I had thought to take her to Shili. She’s shared much with me, and I have little to share in turn, but I had hoped…”

“Then take her to Shili.” Ben encourages his friend. “But take her first to Tatooine.”

“To do what, Ben? She won’t rage and scream at the sky for all the horrors she has faced. It isn’t her way.”

“To walk across the sand.” Ben says simply. “To hold the hands of people she knew. To look slavers in the eye and know she can survive it.”

Ben had avoided Naboo for as long as sentiently possible, holding on to the pain of Qui-Gon’s death, holding on to the terror that simply setting foot there again would give it all life – that he would find himself helpless, that he would find his master dead, that Maul – who he had killed (or believed himself to have killed) – would find him there.

He’d been all but sick with dread, finally forced to go, sleepless and ill of appetite, and what he had found…was a planet. A beautiful planet, full of flowers and waterfalls and the Living Force, as vibrant as any jewel. It was the place where he had suffered, where his master had died, where he had been knighted, and taken in a padawan, and it was the home of a dear friend. And it was not _more_ than that. It was not how his nightmares conceived it.

He had grieved his master once.

But after going back…there was second grief, harder and more bitter than the first, because letting go of the pain of losing his master was still….letting go of his master. In a way, that fear, irrational and insensible as it was, had been a _comfort_ for its familiarity. It had been something to cling to in his darker moments, aching though it did, something grounding and sharp, when other things – the sound of his master’s surprised cough, the exact glint in his eyes when he cheated at sabacc, the details of their missions – seemed to grow dull and faint with time.

“She can’t become who she wants to be if she is trapped by who she was.” Ben says.

Ben had erred there once before, grievously, for the same reasons Shaak Ti hesitated now. He had thought that by keeping Anakin as far from Tatooine as possible he was protecting him, when all he had truly done was prevent his padawan from seeing his mother. From accepting what had been. From letting it go.

“Should I take Anakin with us?” Shaak Ti questions, her silver gaze brooding in concern. “He’s so young. I’m not sure he’ll really understand.”

“That’s a question for his mother.” Ben says with a faint shrug. “Perhaps he’ll need that journey for himself one day, but for now….”

Shaak Ti nods, and pours the tea, now properly steeped. Ben accepts the cup, though he never did quite get accustomed to Shili flavors – citrus and cactus and scrub roots, earthy and tangy in a way that clung to the back of the palate.

“I should be used to this by now.” Shaak Ti sighs into her cup.

“Used to what?” Ben inquires, inhaling the steam over his own, letting the heat sting against his palms.

“You.” Shaak Ti accuses warmly. “And all your ridiculous and painfully necessary machinations.” She’s smiling faintly, but something briefly hitches in her expression, like a question she wants to ask, and fears to.

But she doesn’t ask, and Ben is left to wonder.


	2. Chapter 2

“Today marks four months.” Ben announces, when Healer Kala enters the room. He’s waiting – standing – more or less patiently by the benches, arms not quite crossed so much as passively laid over each other.

Three months had seemed long, but Ben could be a patient man.

Healer Kala extending his restrictions an additional month had very much tested that patience. He did not blame her, given his backward spiral after what had happened to his padawan, but he felt trapped and hemmed in for every passing day, frustrated by circumstance.

The most Ben had been able to do was ask Obi-Wan to stay away from the Senate Dome until Ben could accompany him.

Obi-Wan hadn’t outright asked why, but his wary look of confusion had prompted Ben to warn him that his efforts to undermine the Trade Federation had drawn him some untoward attention.

Obi-Wan had accepted that at face value, turning sheepish and agreeing without compunction.

But Ben had stewed over it.

When Ben had interceded in the fate of the Kaleesh, he had done so to avert the future devastation wrought by General Grievous. What his padawan had done had done more than that.

By negotiating the colonies and excess territories of the Yam’rii into the hands of the Kaleesh, he had inadvertently stripped the Trade Federation of many of the raw resources with which they would construct their battle droids.

And thus interfered in the schemes of the Sith.

They had definitely _noticed_.

By further convincing the Senator of Corellia to push the Trade Federation out of the Corellian Run in favor of the Trade Clans…

Ben had been entirely unaware that Obi-Wan had gone to the Senate Dome that day, unaware of what he was doing, and was now all too aware that had the Sith not been so incredibly devoted to their own discretion, his padawan might have simply disappeared that day, and he would not have known.

Obi-Wan needed to be more careful, which meant Ben had to be more careful, more vigilant.

He needed to _not_ do something rash and suicidal.

Typically, when he felt like this, he turned to Anakin for solutions to his problem, and as Anakin concocted more ridiculous and flamboyant plots, reasonable courses of action would force themselves to the forefront of Ben’s mind in sheer outrage.

Unfortunately, Anakin was currently a child, and more thoughtful than reckless.

Ben’s fallback, for similar scenarios to this, was to then turn to those whom he found even more reasonable and pragmatic than himself, and whose perspective and insight would differ from his own.

Which he also couldn’t do, bound to the Temple and under observation as he was.

Hence, his grating impatience as he stared back at the caamasi healer, who was utterly unaffected.

“Today does mark four months.” Healer Kala nods, moving to her usual seat, which then prompted Ben to his own for proprieties sake. “And I am genuinely pleased with your progress. However…”

Ben steels himself.

“This is not the last you’ll be seeing of me.” She finishes, watching him closely. “I will approve you to return to duty provided you still schedule regular sessions with myself, and when I am not available, such as when you are deployed in the field, you will utilize your holocron for its intended purpose and you will continue to practice the exercises you have been assigned.”

“For how long?” Ben inquires, relaxing immensely.

“Let’s start with indefinitely.” Healer Kala remarks, tone slightly dry. Ben feels an eye twitch, even knowing he probably deserved that. She’s been remarkably stalwart, no matter the horrors he revealed to her.

And remarkably patient, regarding the details he hasn’t. He imagines that if she wanted to, she could find out his identity quite easily, with all he’s given her in slips and missteps and occasional unstoppable confessions, but just as sure as he is of that, he is also sure she doesn’t want to truly know.

She doesn’t want to look into a younglings face and see him, and all his scars and all his trauma. Knowing the future is a poisonous gift.

Ben understands that completely.

“How regularly?” Ben inquires. Quinlan was released from therapy save one session a week, though Healer Kala was always on call if he felt that he was struggling, or if his master did.

“Twice a week while you are in Temple. One full session with me, and one session we’ll split between myself and your holocron.” She says.

If it will pull the Council of Reconciliation out of his shadow, Ben will take what he can get. “That seems reasonable.” Ben remarks.

“Does it?” Healer Kala questions. “Or are you telling me what you think I expect to hear?”

Ben pauses, thinking it over. They’ve played this game several times now, once she had pointed out his tendency to passively manipulate the people around him, and how self-isolating that behavior was. No matter how useful or convenient he might find it to be.

“Both.” Ben decides.

“Very well then.” She sighs faintly, and Ben will admit that he has grown fond of his Soul Healer. “I’ve already signed the paperwork so I shall give you a pass for today and release you. Go passive-aggressively pressure the Reconciliation Council to do the same.”

“You know me so well.” Ben smiles.

“Too well, Master Naasade.” She replies lightly, pouring herself a cup of tea and settling in.

“You’re staying?” He inquires, hesitating to leave. She glances up at him.

“I am. The hour was reserved, after all.” She says. “And I like a cup of tea to collect my thoughts.”

Ben shifts his balance, taking in the smell of a good sharp oolong-green now that she’s poured it. “Perhaps I could join you for a cup?” He offers.

It’s only as he takes the first sip, resettled in his chair, with just a hint of honey-sweetness to mellow the flavor, that he catches the amused, victorious glint in her gaze as she eyes him primly over the rim of her cup.

Ben offers her a narrow look, recognizing the ploy and how neatly it was carried out. She looks innocently away, a smile playing around her snout, and Ben huffs quietly.

They spend the next thirty minutes in companionable silence.

~*~

“This is a depressing exercise.” Quinlan complains bitterly, sprawled on his stomach and staring angrily at the small garden weed in front of him. “If I mess up, it dies. If I don’t mess up, it’ll grow better, but someone will just yank it out of the ground anyway. And then it dies.”

“If you’re attached, I can pot it and put it in your room.” Master Tholme tells him, not even looking up from his datapad, reclining against a tree a few yards away.

“Ugh, no.” Quinlan grumbles, continuing to glare morosely at the plant.

“You can’t keep swinging one way or the other Quinlan, and losing half your skills each time.” Obi-Wan reminds him, echoing Master Tholme’s earlier lecture. “You’re in the well of the dark side. Let’s see what you can do with it that isn’t all chaotic destruction. See if it can heal.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s the opposite of what the Dark Side does.” Quinlan retorts, aiming a light kick at the red-haired teenlings leg, sprawled beside him as he was.

“You’re smarter than that, Quinlan.” Obi-Wan sighs. “There is in all things a cycle. Birth, growth, life, decay, death, deconstruction, reconstruction, rebirth.”

“I don’t need Natural Science one-osk-one, Obi.” Quinlan scowls.

“Oh really?” The younger boy drawls.

“Yes.” Quinlan snaps. “I can tell you right now, I can’t _heal_ like this.”

“Then do something else. Maybe you can’t heal, but how can you help?” Obi-Wan insists, determined that even if Quinlan is dark, he’ll still be…who and what he was. Determined to make something of this, and Quinlan loves him for it and hates him for it.

“That isn’t – I don’t want to. Don’t you get it? The dark doesn’t want to help. It wants decay, and death, and deconstruction. That’s what it _is_. It is pain, and anger, and fear, and grief, and _hunger_. It wants everything, and it wants to destroy everything. To watch life bleed, and planets wither into barrenness, and stars burn out. And after it’s taken everything, it will be alone and absolute, and still _wanting_.” The kiffar rages, and the backlash of his bristling emotions blackens the weed, and the grass he is lying on, and chills the air. The dark was always cold.

Obi-Wan carefully pulls away, pushing himself up and scooting back to rest on his knees, eyeing Quinlan thoughtfully, like there is an idea catching just on the edge of his mind, and the slightest distraction might lose it forever. Quinlan bites down on the urge to chase, to shove, to pin his friend down and make him _see_. His eyes catch on the healing marks on Obi-Wan’s face, and he digs his nails into his palms, imagining clawing them back open, making them raw and vivid and red again.

It was not a good day, and Obi-Wan insisted on providing him with company anyways.

“Then take it.” Obi-Wan says, and Quinlan jerks, spooked.

“What?”

Master Tholme looks up from his datapad, bracing himself to move as he stares critically at the younger padawan.

“Give me a moment.” Obi-Wan says, cupping his hands together, his eyes looking down but unfocused, or utterly focused, in a way that makes Quinlan uneasy. That makes the slinking thing that hides in the dark inside Quinlan uneasy.

The pressure in the air seems to change. The garden seems to brighten, and Master Tholme does move, getting up. “Padawan Kenobi…” He trails off, and Quinlan feels pinned to the ground, as if his entire body was weighed in lead.

There is a soft shimmer of light pooling in Obi-Wan’s cupped hands, dancing, energetic threads arcing and flaring between his palms and knuckles, lensing like solar flares and shimmering like an aurora, growing steadily more intense.

It _burns_.

“Take it.” Obi-Wan offers, holding his hands out towards Quinlan, who has absolutely no idea what the other Padawan had just done. Judging by the stone cold expression on Master Tholmes face, the adult among them has no idea either.

Quinlan can’t stop himself from accepting the offer, scrambling up and reaching for it with the reckless greed of a starved womprat in grasp of something rich and sweet.

“Don’t-“ Master Tholme warns, too unprepared to intercede.

Hi fingers slide past Obi-Wan’s, brushing into the light, and Obi-Wan catches his gaze, for the brief second of recognition before-

Dark meets Light.

They can no more reject each other than opposite charges on a magnet can part. They get pulled in, and for a single moment, everything is _perfect_.

It’s exhilarating beyond what his mind can truly capture. They can feel the tilt of the galaxy, chase the ephemeral bond between distant stars that will die before their light ever meets, see a thousand shades of the same moment, flickering through planes of existence like shadows caught on snowfall-

And then it’s over.

It’s over, but before it fades, before it drains away, Quinlan feels _balanced_ , in a way that was always dreamt of but never accomplished.

“What did you do?” Master Tholme breathes out, standing over them both in shock.

“I – just wanted Quinlan to…not be alone.” Obi-Wan says, his voice far away from himself, and he wavers.

Quinlan stops trying to hold onto the fading threads of that sensation ,that singular moment of perfection, shredding them wherever he touched, and looks at his friend just in time to watch his blue-green eyes widen, and then narrow. His mouth opens to speak, no doubt in defense of his dignity, before he slowly and then quite quickly collapses.

Quinlan looks guiltily up at his master.

“This is not going to go over well.” Master Tholme mutters.


	3. Chapter 3

Ben really does not know why he was so concerned with the Sith trying to murder his padawan. Clearly, Obi-Wan Kenobi was going to manage to kill himself long before the enemy ever got the chance.

“I’m sorry.” Quinlan repeats. “I’m really sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Quinlan.” Ben sighs tightly, pinching the bridge of his nose, the two of them, Master Tholme, and Healer Chias crowding the small healing room round Obi-Wan’s biobed. “My padawan is merely an _idiot_.”

“He wanted to help me.” Quinlan protests in defense of his friend, looking much back to his normal self, save the sliver of bright yellow just teasing the inside edge of his irises.

“And I cannot fault him his intentions.” Ben agrees. “But his execution is another matter entirely.”

“Fine.” Quinlan mutters, tossing his hand and sulking back next to his master, who drops a hand on the teenlings shoulder and offers Ben an apologetic look for his part in the matter.

“There we go….” Healer Chias murmurs, drawing his hands away from Obi-Wan’s chest and brow. “Give him a moment.” He adds to the room, aware and just barely tolerating his audience.

He was more and more like his master every day, and Ni Hiella was damn smug about it.

Obi-Wan doesn’t shift into waking so much as twitch, jerk, and abruptly try to sit up, eyes wide open. “Did I just….” He trails off, eyeing the change of scenery, the room, and the looks on their faces. “…pass out.” He finishes quietly.

“No.” Ben remarks blandly.

Obi-Wan shoots him a dirty look before he remembers he probably ought to look contrite. “Um…what happened?” He asks, clearly trying to sound chided, but mostly just confused.

Ben smiles and steps towards the bed so he can properly look down at his precious fucking idiot of a padawan. “Let me tell you what could have happened.” Ben says, and Obi-Wan shrinks back, shoulders hunching up, but keeping his gaze on his masters. “Had you utilized that technique just a fraction more successfully, or had Quinlan _taken_ what you offered, instead of merely touching it. There were two potential results, my dear, stupid padawan.”

Obi-Wan’s left eye narrows in a wince, and Ben’s smile gets sharper.

“First, you could have died.” Ben states, and Quinlan flinches. “Second, and we can debate the more disastrous of the two if you so wish, you could have permanently severed your own connection to the Force.”

Obi-Wan’s face loses all color, and his posture straightens in appall. He glances around the room, and the look on his Healer’s face confirms what his master has just said with crisp severity.

“But I…” Obi-Wan lifts a hand, shifting it towards his chest, looking smaller than his fourteen years. “I didn’t do that, right?”

Ben reaches forward and tugs on his padawan braid. “No, you didn’t, but you came dangerously close, Obi-Wan.”

“I just….”Obi-Wan looks around again, a little helplessly. “Quinlan sounded so lonely and…trapped, and I just wanted to help. So I found all the light inside myself and I thought, if I can share this with him….” He trails off miserably, and slumps forward, dropping his forehead on Ben’s arm. “I probably should have realized what the light represented.”

“Had you thought about it for two more seconds, you might have.” Ben ruffles the shorn locks of his padawan’s hair. “Which is why we practice patience and deliberation and _impulse control_.”

“Yes, Master.” Obi-Wan mumbles, sighing, and then pauses, his head whipping up. “You’re here.” He states.

“Yes.” Ben agrees.

“But – but – does that mean you’re my master again?” Obi-Wan asks demandingly.

“As a matter of fact, I was literally being handed my official reinstatement by the Reconciliation Council when we were informed that I was needed in the Halls immediately.” Ben tells him, unimpressed, and Obi-Wan blushes.

“Sorry.” He mutters.

“I suppose I have to forgive you.” Ben sighs long-sufferingly, watching the corners of his padawans mouth turn up. Ben takes hold his Obi-Wan’s shoulder briefly. “I am so glad that you’re alright.”

“I’m fine.” Obi-Wan insists, turning redder.

“You’re not.” Essja interjects, arms crossed. “You’re under observation for the next twenty-four hours and only when _I’m_ satisfied will you be declared ‘fine’.”

Obi-Wan groans and flops back on the bed. “But my master was just released!”

“I wasn’t in _prison_.” Ben mutters.

~*~

“Shmi _Skywalker_.” Ben curses, as he fails to break through the programming on the doorkey in his second attempt. Ben was a slicer. Ben was good slicer. Ben was a military grade classified-beyond- classified level slicer. He’d outwitted the Separatists and some of the Empires best. A little less ingenius than Anakin, perhaps, and less well-versed than Cody, who had earned his name from his talents, but he was good enough not to be completely outwitted by a self-taught backwater machinist who-

The screen blinks, and the door opens. “Oh thank the stars.” Ben mutters.

Shmi played dirty, and one day she was no doubt going to completely outmatch him.

Ben steps into his quarters for the first time in months and feels relief wash over him. The repairs aren’t glaringly obvious, and under Shmi’s tender nurturing the vines had flourished, slowly filling in the empty patches. His red ferns, however, seemed fit to burst from their pots, and he’d have to see if anyone wanted to claim a few of them when he thinned them out. The kitchenette smells like spices – from Shmi’s tea and Ben’s mandalorian seasonings, which tells him that Obi-Wan must have been getting into them while Ben was confined to the Halls, and he wonders how well that endeavor went for his padawan, whose palate was not quite up to par with Ben’s own.

Whatever negative impressions that might have been left behind, they have been overwritten by the people Ben adores. Shmi’s quiet care, Obi-Wan’s stubborn compassion, Anakin’s easy joy, Shaak Ti’s more elusive but no less deep affection. It feels like home. It feels safe.

That’s not something he feels very often.

Ben has only just set up his silver teapot when the door chimes, and he stretches his senses to identify Master Yaddle before he decides to answer it. When he lets her in, she does not look amused, clearly having sensed what he had done and accurately having guessed why.

“Well, is your padawan?” She inquires.

“He will be.” Ben assures the elder Jedi, escorting her into his living area and offering her his assistance in settling on his rounded couch. She declines, hopping up with ease, and settles herself down against one of the beaded cushions Anakin likes to collect. “Tea?” He inquires. “I’m afraid I don’t have kelp seed, but I do have good selection of sapir.”

“Know my preferences, you do.” Master Yaddle notes in approval.

“Tea-drinking was a favored negotiation tactic of mine.” Ben smiles faintly. “I made lists of who preferred what, and I conveniently acquired it wherever and whenever I could.”

“Negotiate much, did you?”

“My master was Qui-Gon Jinn.” Ben states.

Yaddle hums in utter understanding. “Yes, negotiation, no doubt you learned.”

“The difficult way.” Ben snorts, and goes to rifle through his cupboards for the appropriate blend, adding it to the heated water.

Ben has had decades to learn that Yaddle and Yoda will get to the point when they wish to get to the point, and not and moment sooner, and so he pours tea, and silently drinks his first cup with her, enjoying the easy peace that comes with observing the elder Jedi’s small expression of pleasure at the fine blend.

“An assignment, we have.” Yaddle murmurs, when her second cup is steaming between her small, clawed hands. “A good return to duty, for you, it should be.”

“I’m listening.” Ben replies.

“A tradition, our people have. Delayed, it has been.” Yaddle says, and Ben is intrigued, because when she says _our people_ , he has the feeling he is speaking directly of him and of herself, and _not_ of the Jedi. “Too young, Kenobi was, when pass, his predecessor did. And living, well past his years, Master Yoda is. Always one, there must be, of our peoples, serving the Jedi. When pass, the elder does, collect the next, the duty of the younger, it is. See to this, we shall. On Search, we are going.”

Ben is stunned, staring back at her. “I’m not sure I understand.”

Her ears bobs slightly. “Clear, was I not?”

“It’s – this never happened. In my…time.” Ben says. “Master Yaddle, I have no idea what tradition you’re speaking of.”

“Hm.” She frowns, speculative. “Neglected, it was. Sad, that is. In an unbroken line, have your people, and mine, served this Order.”

Ben nods thoughtfully, and pauses. “Essentially, you’re saying we’re to go back to our home planets and collect the next youngling to serve after us in the Order. This happens once in a generation?”

“Hm. Yes.”

“That’s one every four-hundred years for your people. And….one every fifty or so for mine?” Ben questions thoughtfully.

“Or so.” Yaddle nods.

“Well, aside from the wildly different lifespans, why do our two people in particular share this tradition? It’s…unusual, to say the least.” Ben asks, thinking to say more would be to remark that it seemed restrictive, because the way she had framed it was that one served in a generation, and _only_ one.

And that, he did not understand the _why_ of.

“Share a system, our people do.” Yaddle comments, as if this is not an absurd thing to declare, given the utter void of information regarding her and Yoda’s species. Luckily, she does not enjoy watching others choke on their tea, and thus waited for him to have swallowed.

“What?”

She frowns at him. “Repeat myself, I shall not.”

“The – the nebula beyond Stewjon.” Ben says. “That’s where your people are from?”

How many planets were there? How many systems? The nebula was massive, but uncharted, un-navigated by the Republic, and dangerous to enter.

“As are yours.” Yaddle remarks simply. “So many questions.” She grumbles. “Such haste. Discover, you could, all your answers, if patience you had, to not bother me. Going, we are. Settled, that is.”

Properly chastised, Ben colors faintly, sips his tea, and nods. “Yes, Master Yaddle, my apologies.”

Had he not just scolded his own padawan in regards to his patience?

~*~

Ben is escorted into the office just in time to see a hologram wink out, though an observant glance shows him that the call was not ended. A small light on Bail Organa’s desk remains lit, indicating that while Ben cannot see or hear the caller, likely they could still hear and see him.

And, well, given the givens, Ben could guess exactly who she was.

“Oh, it’s you.” Bail says relievedly. “Master Naasade.”

“Hello there, Lord Organa.” Ben greets, turning up his palms and bowing his head in the traditional Alderaani manner. He then offers a pointed look at the light on the desk, and Bail follows his gaze and casually drops a hand over it as if to dismiss it.

Ben knows well enough that Bail Organa will not be ending that call. Queen Breha had casually eavesdropped on any number of meetings and conversations over the years, just as Bail had casually eavesdropped on hers in a strange dance of separated companions who then gossiped heartily once their official company was dismissed. “If you have the time, I was hoping you could….advise me on a personal matter.” Ben says, moving forward when Bail offers him a seat, and himself gestures a hand for an attendant.

“I have the time.” Bail assures him, looking genuinely pleased to see him, which eases something in Ben’s spirit that cannot be adequately described. “A drink? It’s not quite supper time but I’ve just discovered I’m on the election bill for the junior senate seat.”

Ben studies the younger mans face for a brief second and feels his smile widen. “Are we celebrating or bracing ourselves, Lord Organa?”

Bail considers. “Both, I rather think. And please, call me Bail.”

“When you learn to pronounce ‘Ben’.” Ben returns the offer, accepting a glass from an efficient attendant in a stately grey uniform.

“It feels…irreverent, somehow, to be so familiar with a Jedi Master.” Bail apologizes, younger than Ben has ever known him.

Ben can feel his expression quirk, and again his eyes drop pointedly to the little light Bail is still so casually covering.

The younger man does not blush. Bail never blushes.

And Ben has _tried_.

“We’re still only people.” Ben remarks.

“Very well, Ben.” Bail takes the first step. “Though I’m not sure I’m entirely suited to advising…”

“You were going to say ‘Jedi’ again, weren’t you?”

Bail lifts a brow, a small sort of emotive shrug, and it’s an achingly familiar expression.

“It’s precisely because you aren’t a Jedi that I am so desirous of your company. We can get to be a bit much, even for each other.” Ben says, and it’s true.

But not the whole truth.

The whole truth is that Ben trusts Bail Prestor Organa more than any being living or dead. Once, he was the man with the fate of the galaxy in his hands and on his shoulders, and he did not falter. He seeded the rebellion, secreted away Jedi survivors, took in and raised the daughter of the Chosen One – The Fallen Cosen One, the most hated man in the Galaxy - and then he had the sheer nerve to return to the heart of the Empire and look that man in the face, and never flinch.

 _He’s a good man, Anakin._ Ben had told his padawan once, when his padawan had grumbled about Ben’s dislike for politicians even though _his_ friend was a politician. _He is kind, and he compromises that kindness for nothing and no one._

And he was that man today and yesterday and tomorrow and five thousand tomorrows from now.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Bail smiles.

“Please do.” Ben murmurs, and takes a sip of the wine.

He cringes. He had forgotten precisely how blisteringly tart Alderaani White actually was. It was Bail’s favorite, and it never failed to make Ben pucker. To be fair, Ben preferred Coreillian Brandy, and Bail had never managed to take that in without coughing either.

Ben swallows, eyes watering slightly as he looks across at Bail, who is doing a deliberately poor job of hiding his amusement.

Ben takes a second sip, as always, it was less vindictive than the first taste.

“So what is it that you’d like my advice on?” Bail asks, savoring his own glass with a light touch.

Ben meets Bail’s dark, kind gaze, and hesitates, though his hand finds his way to his pocket, drawing out the small object secreted there, and bring it out to tap it on the table between two tense fingers. Bail glances down at it, and frowns.

“What is that?” Bail asks inquisitively.

“That,” Ben remarks, keeping himself in the place where his emotions are observed, but not truly felt. “ is the only reason my padawan is still alive.”

Bail’s gaze jerks back up.

“It’s the inner casing of my padawans lightsaber. It’s made of beskar. Mandalorian Iron.” Ben explains, letting the cool feel of it against his figners soothe him. It was a rare thing to find in a lightsaber. Almost nonexistent, given the division between Mandalore and the Jedi for the last several hundred years. “It has a higher threshold for plasma-heat than durasteel, which is why it didn’t immediately disintegrate the moment the lightsabers power cell overloaded and exploded. If it had…” Ben curls his fingers back around the shard of metal, closing his eyes briefly to quell anger and the choking helplessness of what almost happened.

“Is he alright?” Bail inquired. “Senator Bel Iblis and the Kalee Ambassador have mentioned that he was temporarily unavailable, but I hadn’t known it was-“

“Oh, he’s fully recovered.” Ben assures the man, knowing his concern was truly genuine. “No, his absence from the Senate Building is my doing. That’s why I’ve come to you for advice. Someone tried to assassinate my padawan. I know who, and I know why, and I know I will never prove it. I’ll never even be able to _suggest_ it. So what do I do? What would you do?”

Bail’s brows shoot up and he sits back, shocked, and then serious, and then contemplative. His fingers start to tap, a slow, halting pattern, as absent a focus as Ben’s tendency to stroke his beard.

“Do they know that _you_ know?” Breha asks, breaking the silence over the call. Bail’s gaze shutters, and he looks momentarily, fondly exasperated with his love.

“Hello, Your Highness.” Ben greets pleasantly. “No, I don’t believe so. For all the trouble my padawan has caused them to have earned their ill-intent, I believe I am a less than significant existence in their mind, and as far as anyone else is aware, the entire incident was an _accident_.”

“How rude of them to think so.” Breha remarks. “Have you considered merely having them assassinated in return?” She questions quite straightforwardly. Bail takes a deeper drink of wine.

“The Jedi Code forbids revenge.” Ben states clearly. “But for far more dire reasons that I cannot divulge, I am unable to do so at this time, which leaves my padawan in danger.”

“And that is unacceptable.” Breha says resolutely.

“Quite so.” Ben agrees.

They fall silent, all of them thinking. “Bail?” Breha prompts.

“Do the opposite.” Bail remarks, his brow drawn sharply, gaze cast aside in critical thought. “If he doesn’t recognize you as his enemy, make him see you as an ally.”

Ben sets his glass down very carefully, because he almost just snapped it in surprise.

 _Join the Dark Side_! – from the mouth of Bail Organa.

“Friends close and enemies closer?” Ben manages, not sure if he wants to laugh or make tears as he tries valiantly to burn that thought from his head.

“Everyone in the same line of fire.” Bail murmurs. “You go down together or not at all.”

“I don’t think you understand what you’re asking me to do, and even if you did – I couldn’t – I couldn’t do it.” Ben confesses, and Bail looks to him, eyes softening in concern.

The danger was too great – Ben might slip, and try to murder the monster regardless of good reason. Ben might not, and fall into the same trap Yan Dooku once did, seduced to the Dark Side. Or neither, and the Sith might kill him or his padawan for mere convenience regardless. Or amusement. Whichever.

Ben could not take that route.

“Give us something.” Breha insists. “Anything we can work with. We _will_ help you.”

She was a harder soul than Bail, but had just as gentle a heart.

“I am also trying to _not_ get your future husband killed.” Ben says, slightly hysterically.

“Oh, we might be cleverer than you give us credit for, Master Jedi.” The Queen of Alderaan says, tone sly, and Ben believes her. Wherever her husband had been, whatever he had done or involved himself in, Breha was always there with him, in person or in spirit.

Ben bites his tongue. Ben bites his tongue and closes his eyes, because it might be Breha arguing with him, but it was Bails steady, compassionate and resolute gaze that was going to break him.

They were a terribly effective team, the two of them.

Years from now in another life, the fall of the Republic had started with a single, provocative and poisonous rumor, undermining faith in Chancellor Vallorum. Baseless rumors of corruption, about a good man. A good man, just…an ineffective one.

Near the end, Padme had seethed, voice full of tears, about her part in it all.

Ben feels sick, skin crawling, bile climbing up his throat. He doesn’t know what to do.

But he came to Bail because he didn’t know what to do.

“I...“

He’ll get them killed. Sideous was always, always so ephemeral, and yet so, so far ahead of them all. Ben will get them killed.

“I can’t put you in this position. I- I’m sorry to have troubled you.” Ben stands, burning in shame.

“Ben.” Bail catches his arm, and he is too much the man Ben remembers. “Why are you afraid?” He asks, looking at the Jedi with a sharp light behind his eyes that looks at him and knows something about this is entirely _wrong_.

In the eyes of the Republic, after all, the Jedi are never afraid.

“I _can’t_ , Bail.” Ben whispers. “Please.”

Bail lets him go, and Ben worries that on top of everything else, he may have just ostracized a friend he had been hoping to earn back in this life.

He doesn’t realize then, as he leaves, what exactly he left behind.

Bail sighs, and returns to his desk, and pauses, because there on it, next to an abandoned wine glass, was a large sliver of fractured mandalorian iron.

He picks it up.

“Breha?”

“Love?”

“How exactly, do you think, would someone manage to get their hands on a Jedi’s lightsaber?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did i just do? I don't know, but i just did it.  
> We are all on this ride together folks.
> 
> ALSO: Just broke 200k words on this series! WOOT!


	4. Chapter 4

Leaving Bail’s office the way that Ben had had been a terrible move. To begin with, he did not make it out of the Senate Building without first having to tuck himself into an alcove and repetitiously run down his five-count grounding exercises. The tight, surging helplessness and panic he’d felt had turned into a real difficulty to breathe, his hands had gone numb, his limbs cold.

Eventually, it had passed.

The actual fucking idiot that he was, he had then gone home, secluded himself in a chamber with his holocron, and decided that he could somehow fix the entire affair by opening with “I need to talk about Darth Sideous.” His lips curled viciously around the name, a true snarl of hate he couldn’t subdue. “And the fact that he terrifies me.”

And then he had sat there, for four hours, and said nothing, those words echoing back at him.

So after a wretched night of unease and misery, Ben was on his way to apologize to Bail, in the hopes of salvaging something of the other mans respect for him.

“Excellent timing, Master Ben.” Bail greets him, when an attendant shows him right in. Bail is leaning against on corner of his desk, carefully holding what looks like a gift box. “I have a favor to ask.”

Ben hesitates, lips parting, and then nods, himself holding the shallow pot of a small silver barked, white leafed tree replanted from an offshoot of the ones in his quarters.

“How can I oblige?” Ben inquires.

Bail smiles, dark eyes alight, and shuffles their respective burdens around, taking a pause to admire the whispery leaves on the offered plant. “Can a Jedi determine if something is poisoned?” Bail inquires.

“In most cases.” Ben nods, narrowing his eyes in concern. “Do you think someone is trying to poison you?”

Bail’s lips quirk. “That is the question.” Bail says. “That is a gift from Breha’s aunt.”

Ben lifts a brow and tips the box slighty, asking permission, and Bail nods. Ben opens the box, and fishes out a small, ornate bottle he’s certain was made of real crystal, a pale blue liquid inside. He passes the box back to Bail, who puts it on the desk.

“Fragrance?” Ben guesses.

“Hopefully?” Bail replies, expression a touch wry, and Ben feels a smile touch his lips.

The Jedi Master carefully turns the small bottle, and, finding noting untoward about the container, and sensing no warnings in the Force, Ben uncaps it. Nothing fizzes or flashes, or changes color, and a gentle exploration of the Force seems benign. Ben takes a whiff.

He coughs.

The fragrance may not be poisonous, but the scent was itself nearly acidic. “Not poison, no, but I must agree that someone deeply does not care for you.” Ben says apologetically, recapping the bottle and handing it over with a grimace of distaste.

“That, I knew.” Bail sighs, one brow ticking up in that self-amused manner Bail had always had. “House Antilles does not approve of the match between Breha and myself.”

“They dislike you?” Ben questions incredulously, wondering how anyone truly _disliked_ the man before him.

“They dislike that I am the sole Heir Organa.” Bail explains. “Tradition would dictate that as there are other Heirs Antilles, Breha would take my name when we marry, to preserve my House. As would any children we may have. Which would mean that for the first time in two hundred and thirty years, House Antilles would not hold the throne.”

“They’d still be a Royal House.” Ben shakes his head.

“But not _The_ Royal House.” Bail sighs. “It’s not all of them.” The alderaani continues, somewhat defensive of his people and his prospective wife’s family. “Her grandfather and her mother neither approve nor disapprove, so long as we do everything properly, and her sister is more than supportive. There are just…so many Aunts and Uncles and Cousins.”

“And what do they expect by ‘do everything properly’?” Ben asks, out of curiosity. Bail smiles.

“Alderaan Traditions.” Bail settles more comfortably against the desk, and Ben leans against the wall. It is a very small office, as the younger man was only an aide. “While the age of majority is twenty-one, it is considered improper to get engaged before both parties are twenty-three. A traditional engagement should last at least one year, mostly for the benefit of having the time to plan the wedding and for the guests to prepare for the union.” Bail continues. “It is then considered appropriate to wait five years before bringing a child into the Household. Alderaan can be…old fashioned, in some respects. Public opinion is not nearly so restrictive, but among the Royal Houses….”

“Appearances.” Ben nods in understanding, feeling compassion for Bail’s situation. “So you have…a year yet, before you can even get engaged?” Ben inquires, testing his memory.

“Closer to half a year.” Bail smiles. “I’m only twenty-two. Breha’s had to wait on me, I’m afraid.”

“You are rather worth waiting for.” Ben says without thinking, taking a familiarity with the younger man that they do not yet actually have.

“That’s very generous of you.” Bail replies, with an easy smile. “Considering it’s the _Queen of Alderaan_ I’m holding up.”

Ben laughs, shaking his head.

“Though, if you could keep that quiet….” Bail trails off, brows lifted in polite entreaty. It is not common knowledge, or even an open secret, that Bail is the Queen’s lover. That they trust Ben with that information so easily is a faith he is not sure he has yet earned, but cherishes regardless.

Ben admired them both greatly. Breha was not just a decent ruler. She was born a princess, but Alderaan had a practice not unlike a Jedi’s Trial of Knighthood, wherein any heir to throne must endure an Ordeal, to prove their worth and dedication to the people of Alderaan.

Breha’s Ordeal had nearly killed her, and had left her with cybernetic replacements for her lungs, which had been damaged beyond repair. She had been only sixteen when she committed herself to the Ordeal, and to the lifetime of service and duty to her people as monarch.

Padme Amidala and Breha Organa had been in many ways alike, but in many ways opposites. Padme was passionate, outspoken, and a woman of actions, fiery in her glory. Breha was articulate, quietly resolute, and tenacious. She did not flare and burn and fade. She was like the water that flowed down the mountains. Patient, slow, at times, but adaptable and persevering, carving through stone day by day by day, until she was where she was determined to be, and the world changed in her wake.

“I’d never break your trust.” Ben swears to him. Bail’s expression changes minutely, softening, but his eyes search Ben’s, trying to figure him out.

“Did you need something of me?” Bail inquires. “Sorry, I rather overtook you.”

“Quite alright.” Ben murmurs. “I merely came to apologize for my rather…erratic behavior yesterday.” He says, and folds up on sleeve just enough to reveal his medical tag. “Paranoia is a rather inconvenient side-effect of my TSR diagnosis, if you are familiar.” Ben suggests, and Bail nods, eyes creased with concern. Ben lets his sleeve fall back over the bracelet. “It had been an already trying day, and I should have delayed coming to see you until I felt more…balanced.”

“Balance or no balance, you are always welcome to come see me.” Bail says, glancing away and pushing off the desk. He glances back. “I do rather enjoy your company, ‘Master Jedi’.” He smirks lightly.

“And I yours, Lord Organa.” Ben returns, good humor overtaking his own polite, crisp expression reserved for having had to just imply a pitiable lie to a man he truly wants to be his friend. Again. “Though, I must beg pardon twice, as I haven’t much time. I need to see to my padawan.”

“Of course.” Bail replies, unreservedly understanding.

“And give my apologies to Queen Breha as well?”

“Really, Ben, it’s not necessary, but yes, I will pass it along.” Bail promises.

Ben nods, relieved, and bows. Bail turns up his palms and lowers his head in response, and folds his hands back together in a clasp when Ben leaves.

The door closes softly, triggering a silent alert, and Breha’s hologram pops back into existence.

“Well,” She murmurs, sharing a look of fond consternation with him. “Now we know what our Jedi Master looks like when he lies.”

"I don't think he outright lied so much as...cleverly implied." Bail muses.

"Well, a man after our own heart." Breha remarks, amused. "We'll certainly have to keep on our toes.".

Bail nods, rubbing his brow, and steps around the desk.

“Who found it, again?” Bail inquires absently.

“I am not telling you which of your attendants are Royal Service and which are not, Bail Organa.” Breha scolds, one cheek dimpling as her smile curls for him.

“I merely want to know who risks their life to protect mine, dear.”

“Yes, _dear_ , but your worry would give them away.” She replies knowingly.

Bail had immediately suspected the Trade Federation, when Ben had first mentioned it, but the Jedi’s fear then made little sense. From all they knew, the nemoidians glared at the mans back and then cowered when he turned their way. They were vicious, but they weren’t something a Jedi couldn’t handle.

So they – Breha’s Royal Service agents, that is - had dug in to investigate. To anyone of their skills, apparently, it had been remarkably easy to find.

Whomever had done whatever it is they had done had _not_ been sloppy. Rather, they had covered their tracks _too_ well. Data scrambling cameras and recorders wasn’t uncommon in the Senate, but a vast majority of diplomatic service and protocal droids were shielded from such interference. At least in so much as both devices in question fell within legal parameters.

On the last day Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi had been in the Senate, prior to his accident, he had been escorted inside by his fellow Jedi, under the noses of some very protective political allies for the entirety of the night, and then traversed alone through the corridors for the span of less than half an hour. He can be found on recording for all but two minutes of that. The missing minutes are irrecoverable. They were not deleted nor overwritten nor corrupted in any manner that the slicers could discover. Rather, they appeared to have been hardwired out - if such a thing were possible - as if they never existed. Among millions of terabytes of data, and with nothing of special interest occurring at that time in that area, the absence had not been noticed by the filtering systems as anything more than an auto-corrected datastream delay.

Shortly thereafter, fifteen different droids who had been in that particular corridor had reported to maintenance for malfunctions.

And one did not.

OA-1-28 was an optical assistant droid for a miralukken ambassador. It did not record digital data, but internally compiled brailligraph prints which could be read through touch, and, in some cases, translated through a secondary program back into visual data.

The brailligraph print had been scorched in one section, and the image they retrieved through translation is basic at best, however….

It showed Padawan Kenobi, or, at least, a simplified version of a red haired Jedi Padawan, reaching to take something from an individual who cannot be defined by the cyber matrix. Their impression was literally burned from the prints, though Bail nor Breha nor their agents can comprehend how.

The object passing between them, however, _was_ recorded.

And it _was_ Padawan Kenobi’s lightsaber.

~*~

Obi-Wan Kenobi stares at his master in shock, while internally shrieking at what his master has just told him.

 _ADEGANS_!

His shielding is too good for the internal emotive to cause the nearest Jedi to flinch at the broadcast (as it would have before his master came along), but his master had a direct line to his brain, and he  _does_ wince.

“Yes, adegans.” Master Ben replies exasperatedly. “The archivists have finally accepted my request that we see if any of those Master Tahl brought back might be a match for you.”

“But th-those are artifacts.” Obi-Wan sputters, torn between shock and awe and cringing horror.

“And an adegan that is encased and left abandoned will dim and die and shatter.” His master says, drawing Obi-Wan into walking with him by gently pulling him by the shoulder. “Whereas an Adagen that is used can last forever.”

“But the cataclysm at Ossus was centuries ago.” Obi-Wan protests. “Shouldn’t they be broken down?”

“They were waiting.” Master Ben replies sagely. “Adegans aren’t like kyber. They aren’t just a focus, they possess a sapience, padawan.”

Obi-Wan falls silent at that, but inside, he squirms.

The Healers say the marks on his face should fade within a year, though some of the burn scars on his side will be permanent. His hand still aches sometimes, and he has to wear a woven support glove from knuckle to elbow until the musculature firms back up, and to help with the pain. Essja had been calm but very upfront about his options regarding the potential long-term nerve damage.

Obi-Wan had made a mistake with his first saber he wasn’t particularly eager to attempt to repeat.

He chews on the inside of his cheek as his master guides him into the anthropology archives, and into the private access beyond the displays that Obi-Wan didn’t even realize existed. In spite of his nerves, he’s awed by all the things he can see carefully ordered and tagged on shelves, some of them just labelled with very poignant questions marks. Ancient power-packs, broken force-enhanced blades, old talismans with worn symbols, rubble with carefully preserved parts and pieces of murals, all of it pertaining to Jedi history.

“Obi-Wan!” A familiar jittery voice yelps, and Obi-Wan recognizes Padawan Jepas Tanwaze with a smile. The ten-year old black-skinned twi’lek grins brightly and waves him and his master over, sitting on a stool and kicking his feet next to an elderly tholotian Master wearing telescopic goggles; inspecting and laying out each adagen crystal onto an undyed drape with care.

“I didn’t know you were back here.” Obi-Wan comments inquiringly. Jepas beams, lekku twitching, and Obi-Wan notices that the younger padawan is in fact sitting on his hands. No doubt he had too exuberantly handled very fragile things and been scolded.

“Normally we’re up in records, but as Historians, we’re allowed to come help process new finds. It’s awesome.” Jepas bounces a little, giddy, and Obi-Wan really wonders where he gets the energy from. He’d thought maybe it was an adolescent twi’lek trait, but Aayla was nothing like that.

“That it is.” The tholotian master says fondly, straightening his spine and stretching from his hunched stance before laying a hand atop his padawans head, carefully between the bases of his lekku. Jepa settles, a little. “Master Yuni.” He greets them. “And you would be Master Naasade and Padawan Kenobi.”

“We would be.” Master Ben replies with the same touch of wryness.

“They certainly picked a pair to give permission to.” Master Yuni remarks, not unkindly. “Though as far as superior duelists go…” He eyes the both of them. “Not a bad choice.”

Obi-Wan blushes at the compliment, and his master tips his head graciously.

“Well then, padawan mine?” Master Ben prompts, laying a hand between his shoulder blades in the suggestion of a push.

Obi-Wan looks down at all the crystals, feeling a chill raise over his skin. “Um…”

“It’s not much like finding your first kyber.” Master Yuni tells him. “Adegans sing. It’ll call to you, but you have to reach out. They’ve been quiet a long time, it wouldn’t surprise me if they’re still…asleep, so to speak.”

“Okay.” Obi-Wan murmurs, not noticing his master’s concerned frown. The crystals on the cloth have more shades of color than ilum kyber, which is typically all almost clear. “Are they fragile?”

“I’ve inspected each one personally and removed those that were flawed.” Master Yuni assures him. “Flawless adegan is one of the toughest materials in the galaxy.”

Obi-Wan nods, still staring down at different bits of glinting light with no idea what to do.

“Obi-Wan?”

“I- I’m not sure.” Obi-Wan mumbles, wrapping the fingers of his left hand around his braced wrist.

“Well, try-“ His master reaches down, just brushing his fingers over a few of the crystals nearest him, and the third one _sparks_. Master Ben jerks his hand back with a hiss, shaking out his hand and then inspecting the skin, though he finds no blemish or burn.

“Did it not like you?” Obi-Wan asks nervously, even more doubtful now.

“Oh, quite the opposite.” Master Ben mutters, shooting the crystal a dirty look.

“I’d say.” Master Yuni remarks. “That one goes to you.”

His master reaches for it with a narrowed eye, but it only gleams innocently as he picks it up.

He gives Obi-Wan an expectant look, and the padawan can feel the brush of reassurance over the back of his mind, a steadfast endless pool he could sink into if he needed to.

Obi-Wan takes a breath, painfully grateful, and loos over the crystals again.

 _Hello_. He thinks, wondering exactly how much reaching out he should be doing. He extends his senses, but if adegans are alive in a certain respect, he doesn’t want to go smothering them with his presence because that was just rude-

Something between a sparkle and the shimmer of the sound of a chime. Obi-Wan frowns, trying to focus on it, but others crowd in, a slow and then flurried cacophony.

 _Waking up_ , Obi-Wan thinks. Most of them quiet soon after, but some continue to hum, a few louder than others. Obi-Wan lets his fingers drift over them, wary of a reaction like his masters but…

There are impressions. Not quite memories, but sensations of memories, in a few of them. Some of them were old, very old, carried by generations of Jedi, and some of them had only been carried once, or not at all, and those ones felt bereft.

There is a green that thrums like a heartbeat beneath the pads of his fingers, drumming like a war-chant, energetic and harmonic and heavily potent. Obi-Wan picks it up, feeling it sink into the marrow of his bones as if they were both brought into existence to be one, and he smiles.

Something shrieks as he pulls away, and Obi-Wan jolts, tightening his grip on the green adegan, which soothes to have been found, as something else cries out to him like a lost child. Obi-Wan’s gaze is drawn to a smaller yellow shard, and he swallows dryly.

 _Two_ adegan crystals?

He licks his lips and picks it up in spite of himself, and the aching in the bones of his right hand.

It doesn’t sink into him like the other one does, reaching down to the root. It calls, haunting and promising and expectant, airy and enveloping, like a mist. It’s also older, much, much older, but it has also been alone for far longer.

The green crystal melds to him like it knows him, like it will become a semblance of him, or he’ll become a semblance of it. This one isn’t so…intrinsic. This one has an otherness to it. This one, he thinks, might speak.

“Oh, they’ll love us for this.” His master mutters. Obi-Wan looks up, concerned and confused, and his master just shakes his head, cinnamon hair shadowing his face. There is certain micro-expression his master gets when the Council is concerned, and Obi-Wan can see it now, his heart sinking. He’s done something he was supposed to do, but nobody is going to be happy about it.

“When are we going to catch a break, Master?” Obi-Wan asks plaintively, clutching both his crystals in a possessive and brittle grip.

His master sighs, reaching out to tug on his padawan braid. “Oh, Obi-Wan…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At some point, I will in fact get past all the side-plots and on with the actual story this was meant to be.  
> Also, the comments on the last chapter were AMAZING and I adore all of you and you all seriously help me through.


	5. Chapter 5

Qui-Gon is mulling over how, precisely, he needs to frame the argument that his padawan does not have control over his wardrobe and should not, therefor, be replacing his tunics without his permission.

He had been utterly baffled to return yesterday while she was attending classes to find what he had assumed were someone else’s shirts on his bed.

Not so, apparently, as all of his shirts had also been missing.

He’d been forced to wear the black one this morning, eyeing the pale blue and leaf green warily, and realized that he would have to put his foot down, and curb her rather…independent streak.

She was just….difficult to argue with.

Mentioning colors, a flash of black-white catches his eye, and gleaming red hair. “Padawan Kenobi.” Qui-Gon calls out, watching the boy stiffen when he recognized who had called his name. It was a grimacingly familiar reaction to Qui-Gon’s presence, and he did not quite know how to settle the matter without offending the boy further.

The padawan turns back in the corridor, trots over to Qui-Gon, who has stopped, folds his hands into his sleeves, and bows just enough to satisfy courtesy. “Master Jinn.” He greets civilly.

Qui-Gon would sigh, but he has other matters on his mind. One in particular, in fact. “What can you tell me about your grandmaster?” Qui-Gon inquires.

The boy blinks, surprised by the query, blue-green eyes bright in a pale face under his rich red hair.

“My master doesn’t talk about him much. I don’t even know his name.” The boy explains, before glancing aside, looking thoughtful. “He died before my master was knighted – just before, I think. And I get the impression that they were not on good terms when he died.”

The padawan pauses, glancing up uncertainly, and Qui-Gon gestures for him to continue. The padawan studies him glancing between the master’s pupils as if testing his merit.

“He was an excellent duelist, as you could guess, but my master speaks of him being a remarkable diplomat as well, if unconventional.” He says. “I’d say…” He hesitates, looking a little uncertain of himself. “From everything I know, I’d say he was a great Jedi, Master Jinn. Just not a very good man.”

“Is that what your master says?” Qui-Gon questions sharply.

The boy’s eyes narrow at his tone, but he answers regardless. “It’s not that. Sometimes, it’s more about what my master _doesn’t_ say.” The padawan tells him wisely.

As with most young padawans, the habit to obey comes first when being addressed by a master, but is usually shortly followed by the habit to question. “Why do you ask?”

Qui-Gon looks away from the curious, puzzled look on the boy’s face. “Curiosity.” He states, quietly dismissing him with a flick of fingers. The boy’s expression pinches, but he takes his leave eagerly enough.

 _A great Jedi_. Qui-Gon thinks. _Just not a very good man_.

Was that what he saw, then? What he meant?

 _“You remind me very much of my master.”_ Naasade had told him, and Qui-Gon hadn’t been able to get it out of his head.

~*~

“But if you’re leaving and we’re leaving, who is looking after Anakin?” Obi-Wan questions, standing just at the edge of the kitchenette in the Ti/Skywalker quarters with the youngling in question sitting on his shoulders.

“He’ll be joining us when we journey to Shili, but in the interim, Knight Dahvo has volunteered, as Master Tholme was uncertain of having Quinlan share quarters quite yet.” Shaak Ti replies, cutting root vegetables with a wicked bone blade for a traditional Shili dish. “Though that little twi’lek nearly lives there already.”

“Knight Dahvo?” Obi-Wan repeats. “I don’t think I’ve ever met him.” He says skeptically.

“He’s nice.” Anakin says helpfully. “He helps free slaves on the rim.”

“That’s good.” Obi-Wan nods.

“And he’s scared of amu.” Anakin adds conspiratorially. “It’s funny.”

“That’s better.” Obi-Wan mutters protectively.

“There’s too many vegetables!” Anakin protests, accidentally kicking Obi-Wan in the rib as he moves around. “You should put bugs in it, Master Ti.” He tells his mother’s master.

“You may add all the roasted beetles you like, young Skywalker.” Shaak Ti tells him, silver gaze turned fondly in the boys direction.

“Yippee!” Anakin cheers, wriggling until Obi-Wan shifts to let him down, watching the youngling dash into the kitchenette behind Shaak Ti, kick open a drawer, and climb onto the counter in an energetic rush, fetching a cloth-bound ceramic jar that rustled and hissed.

“ _Roasted_ beetles, Anakin.” Shaak Ti chided lightly. Anakin puts the hissing jar back and fetches a different one. “Don’t look so put out, Obi-Wan.” She adds. “On Shili, we toss in thumb-sized river crustaceans, and their shells are just as obnoxious as the beetles. Either way, it will crunch.”

“And _your_ teeth are made for that, Master Ti.” Obi-Wan points out in his own defense, and she flashes a smile that displays her sharper ones.

“I’ll eat your beetles, Obi-Wan.” Anakin promises. “I like them.”

“That’s very kind.” Obi-Wan praises.

The boy smiles back and then his smile falters. “Why does amu have to go back to tatooine?” He asks. “Has she done something bad?”

“No.” Obi-Wan and Shaak Ti both reply.

“No, Anakin.” Shaak Ti sets down her tools and crouches down, offering her hands to the boy, who pushes past them and snuggles up against her. “I am only taking her there for a little while, and nothing bad will happen.”

“But it’s a bad place. Why does she have to go back?” Anakin whimpers. “She’s my amu. I _need_ her.”

Shaak Ti cradles the back of his head, and her silver gaze lifts to Obi-Wan for help in explaining what is difficult enough to explain to adults. Obi-Wan panicks a little bit, but squashes the feeling down, because only part of it is his, and the rest of it is spilling out of Anakin like a flash flood.

“Because you weren’t alone on Tatooine, were you, Anakin?” Obi-Wan says, and Shaak Ti’s eyes light. “Your people are there too. Your mom is just going to go see them again, as a free woman.”

“Is she going to free them too? Are you going to free the slaves?” Anakin asks Shaak Ti, whose entire face shutters for a moment with sorrow.

“Not this time, I’m afraid.” Shaak Ti murmurs, humming deep in her chest. She cards bright fingers through his darkening blonde hair. “But someday.” She promises, and Obi-Wan’s lips part in surprise, but the good kind of surprise.

The Jedi opposed slavery, and freed and saved those where and when they could, but rarely had they ever truly attacked it, and what Shaak Ti had just promised, what the Force had heard; it was a declaration of something more.

“Can I come then?” Anakin asks. “When you free the slaves?”

“Provided you are properly trained, young man.” Shaak Ti chides, rising and passing him back to Obi-Wan, giving him a knowing look. Obi-Wan colors faintly, as Anakin clings to his neck, and thinks that they’ve both got quite a bit of growing to do before people should be putting that on _him_.

~*~

“How did your first few days go?” Healer Kala inquires, gaze already lit with her expectations of his answer.

“Oh…not well.” Ben replies with a huff. “I saw my padawan hospitalized, went to see a friend for advice and backpedaled when I realized what a terrible idea it was to involve him, I missed dinner to have an anxiety attack, choked when it came to talking through my issues with my holocron, failed to achieve any meaningful sleep, and then went back and implied an unstable mind to a man I greatly admire in an attempt to explain my erratic behavior.”

“I see.” She replies neutrally. “And what did I tell you to do when you were relieved of your restrictons?”

“Refamiliarize myself with my surroundings, eat a good mandalorian meal, and take it easy for a little while.” Ben recites flawlessly.

She stares steadily back at him.

“I was impatient.” He mutters.

“You were.” She replies. “And in your impatience, you did yourself harm.”

“I nearly did more than that.” Ben mutters, his heart clenching at the thought of anything happening to Bail.

“I can only imagine, and I would not like to.” The camaasi healer replies, stripes fur ruffling briefly. “How bad was the anxiety attack – and I’ll not scold you for not returning to me immediately afterwards. Did you experience any more flashbacks? Dissasociation?”

“Nothing so intense.” Ben reports. “Tightness in my chest, loss of feeling in my hands, cold. I went through my grounding exercises a few times and it eventually settled.”

“Were you ever in danger of passing out?”

“No.” Ben replies honestly. “No spots in my vision, no true lightheadedness – I felt ready to sick up more than anything.” Which, now that he thinks about it, may have partially been the wine. His first taste of alcohol on a new stomach – and a new liver.

“Then all things considered, I would say you handled it rather well.” Healer Kala remarks. “Would you like to discuss it further?”

“No.” Ben shakes his head.

“Would you like to discuss what you sought advice on?”

“No.”

“Then perhaps we can change tracks and talk about your upcoming mission?” She inquires calmly, never fazed for very long by his reluctance, or his revelations.

~*~

 _Swack_!

“Karking hells, Master Yaddle!” Ben swears, jolting aside and glaring down at the tiny little green monster that masqueraded perversely as a wise and gentle soul.

“Ill-dressed, is your padawan.” Yaddle grumbles, swishing her stick up to point at the person in question, who was answering questions for a gaggle of younglings. “Visit the quartermaster, he should, before depart tomorrow, we do.”

“Do you not like the color?” Ben inquiires, baffled.

Yaddle blinks periously at him, and then slaps his calf with her stick again. “Too short, are his hems. Like plucked feet, stick out, do his limbs. Grow, younglings do. Know this, you should!” She scolds.

“He can’t have.” Ben protests, reaching down to rub wincingly at his new bruise, and turning to study his padawan. His black-to-white colors did differentiate him, and distract from smaller details, but Yaddle was correct. His wrists bared with the slightest motion of his arms, and his belt did not quite sit where it should for the pleat of his tunics. Shoved into his boots, Ben could not just the seam of his pants, but in recollection, perhaps he had gained a little height when considered standing next to his friends.

But still…

“I didn’t grow an _inch_ between the ages of thirteen and sixteen.” Ben mutter sourly, baffled.

Yaddle frowns up at him, and then tires of that, and prods at his ankle until he lowers himself respectfully so she does not have to so crane her neck. “Less well cared for, were you?” She inquires quietly. “Well loved, is your padawan. Well _fed_ , he is also.”

Ben startles, thinking about it.

Between Ben, who had been pushing his padawan to his physical limits from the day he took him in and thus made sure he never skipped a meal, and Shmi, who had lived a life of privation and thus made sure no one under her watch ever missed a snack or even _looked_ hungry, Obi-Wan could probably count the days he went hungry over the last year and a half on a single hand.

Ben…

He had, perhaps, missed more than he can ever remember attempting to count. Qui-Gon Jinn had not slowed down for his grudgingly aquired padawan, and had, on more than one occasion, left him behind in the field with…minimal supplies or support. Qui-Gon was also a man who considered a pot of tea to be ‘lunch’. Which was to say nothing of the long missions wherein both of them were living hand-to-mouth.

“I had a difficult apprenticeship.” Ben admits grudgingly, eyeing the bright look on his padawans face, perhaps a little more filled out at fourteen than Ben’s had been. “Kriff.” Ben swears. “Does that mean he’ll be taller than me?”

Yaddle glowers at him. “Outgrow us, padawans do.” She grumbles peevishly. “Complain of tallness, to me, you should not. Clothe your padawan, you ought to.”

“Yes, yes.” Ben accedes, rising to fetch Obi-Wan, offering her a bow.

Obi-Wan sees him coming an shoos the younglings away, moving towards his master, who informs him bluntly of Master Yaddle’s opinion of his appearance.

“Oh, I was waiting.” Obi-Wan replies innocently.

“For?” Ben inquires, and his padawan smiles mischievously.

“Follow me, Master.” Obi-Wan instructs, and strides away.

Ben huffs, and then follows.

What his padawan has to show him, packed away in a crate in the Red Kettle, which looked less and less like the vessel he arrived in from Tatooine every time Shmi touched it, Ben could not believe.

“Where did you get this?” Ben asks, impressed and slightly concerned. “ _How_ did you get this?”

“There were pirates involved.” Obi-Wan grins gleefully. “We had already broken in to…gather intelligence, so…”

“And by ‘we’ you mean yourself and Jango Fett? Is that what he had you doing? Stealing information? And by ‘pirates’ I can only assume you mean Hondo Ohnaka and his…associates.” Ben says, clarifying.

Obi-Wan shrugs, caught out. “More or less. Fett was looking for something specific, but…well, we were stealing from the Death Watch, so I don’t really feel that bad about it.”

Ben takes his padawan by the shoulders, and resists the urge to shake him in the hopes that rattling around a few brain cells might somehow help. “You were stealing from _the Death Watch_?”

“I was with the Manda’lor.” Obi-Wan offers up, cowed slightly by his master’s intensity, but otherwise seemingly unbothered by the situation he had put himself in.

 _If he thinks he is a good combatant now_ , Ben swears, _he will not recognize himself when I am through_.

He needed to have a word with Fett, too. Obi-Wan didn’t have beskar’gam, and he hadn’t even had his own saber!

If Fett had given him a _blaster_ to use…

 _Words_.

But in the meantime, resting in the crate were bolts of Concordian Silk. Light, incredibly tensile, and an extremely durable fabric, it wouldn’t tear or stain, and it was treated to be resistant to blaster fire and still breathable. It was the traditional under-armor for a mandalorian’s beskar’gam, but for the last few centuries it could only be afforded by the more affluent of Mandalore and the occasional off-world royalty, rare and difficult to produce as it was. Some clans passed it down through the generations, but many were put to pyre while wearing theirs, and thus it was lost.

Clearly, however, Fett had found someone capable of processing it, as the colors were tailored perfectly to suit Ben and Obi-Wan. A bolt of solid white, a bold of flat black, and a bolt that shimmered between high silver and cold-iron grey.

“You’re growing, so we are going to be very careful how we use that until you are _done_ growing.” Ben warns, and Obi-Wan nods in sharp attention, though Ben isn’t convinced his padawan understands exactly how much wealth is represented in the gift.

For Ben, one bolt was ivory-cream, just a shade different from his usual tunics, another a light-absorbing dark brown, and the last teased the eye, shimmering between soft orange and low red, with just an occasional flash of copper to gold gleaming.

On Mandalore, the colors you painted your armor were a declaration of who you were and what you represented. Ben knew that just as well as Fett. It wasn’t quite the same as being given beskar’gam, but it was not perhaps so easy a gift as Obi-Wan mistook it for, as inured to the Mand’alor as he had become.

Ben runs his fingers across the smooth, fine fabric, Obi-Wan looking up at him in hopeful expectation, awaiting his judgement.

“Is it a sign of affection or a scolding, do you think, for nearly getting ourselves killed?” Ben questions his padawan with a slight smile.

“Oh, it’s both.” Obi-Wan grins back, relieved. “You should have heard him swearing, Master.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, next chapter, actual story plot, i swear.  
> I used to write entire mission fics in the word count it is now taking me just to get this one *literally* off the ground. O.o
> 
> Absolutely adore all my readers, comments are life!


	6. Chapter 6

The tables have turned between padawan and master, and it is Obi-Wan who directs them to a halt, eyeing his master. Master Ben’s hair is darkened with sweat, as is his brow and tunics, and there is strained edge to his breathing that speaks of his gutted endurance. It seems loud in the cleared hold of their transport. The walls occasionally tick and moan, as most vessels do, and their lightsabers hum, but the breathing seems to echo, and Obi-Wan feels hyperaware of it.

He disengages the saber he has borrowed from his master, and his master follows suit, wielding Master Yaddle’s.

“Dinner time?” the older man inquires, wiping his brow and attempting to regulate his heaving lungs with limited success.

“If we eat dinner right now, you’ll throw up.” Obi-Wan says knowingly, and his master grimaces in agreement. “We can wait.” Obi-Wan adds, just as his own stomach grumbles hungrily. Master Ben eyes him, blue-grey eyes narrowing.

“You don’t have to wait on my account, Obi-Wan.”

“I can wait.” Obi-Wan insists. “I want to.” He adds. “So how about you sit down – don’t think I can’t see you cramping up – and I’ll make us some tea to tide us over.”

His master lifts a brow at his commentary, but does eventually nod his assent, gesturing for Obi-Wan to lead the way to the galley. When they get there, Ben is slow to sit, and one hand presses against his stomach as he does, firming up the protesting muscles. Obi-Wan takes note of it, as he takes note of a lot of things his master does lately.

Obi-Wan rummages the cupboards, pulling out various stashes of tea left by the many rotations of Jedi whom have used this transport in the past. He finds what he’s looking for, and pulls his own stashed rations from a different cubby, throwing them in together when the water’s heated.

“You’re doing very well.”

“I’ve made tea before, Master, thank you.” Obi-Wan quips.

“I meant your saber form, but now that you mention it, yes, I think your tea pouring skills have vastly improved.” His master returns readily. They aren’t facing each other, and so they both merely give the other a pointed, side-eyed look for their sarcasm.

“I’ve been practicing with people who aren’t you.”

“Oh, you call that practice?” Master Ben inquires, brows lifting. “I think I heard someone the other day call it ‘devastating the fledgling pride of the senior padawans’, but your humility does you grace, _verdiber_.”

“I meant that I’m learning to fight actual people now.” Obi-Wan protests, ears burning hotly. “As opposed to you, who can dance ten rings around every duelist in the Order.”

“I don’t understand how that means I’m not an actual person.” His master points out, tipping a hand in trailing question. Obi-Wan rolls his eyes, earning his master’s disapproving nudge in the Force.

“You said not to roll my eyes in polite company.” Obi-Wan defends himself, nudging back. “I don’t think that includes _you_.” He says, and pours his master his tea.

“When am I not polite?” Master Ben protests, accepting the cup with still tremoring hands, his blood no doubt still pounding from their exercise. They _had_ rather overdone it today. Obi-Wan may not be as winded, but his muscles were certainly going to remind him of this later.

Master Ben breathes in the steam, pauses, and glances down into his cup, taking in the orange-yellow color.  “Kalevalan tea-pepper and gimer?” He questions, a lock of hair slipping free of the tie holding it back and falling over the left side of his face. “Where did you get gimer tea?”

“I was hoping the tea-pepper might hide the taste.” Obi-Wan shrugs. “And Master Yoda gave me the gimer tea, to help with….”Obi-Wan lifts his right hand, still wrapped in a flex-brace for support. “This, when it hurts. It’s a decent pain-reliever.” Obi-Wan comments. “I like it better than the pills Essja gave me.”

“I understand.” His master says quietly, and takes a sip. He makes a strange face. “That is a very interesting combination.” He comments neutrally.

Frowning, Obi-Wan lifts his own cup to his lips, breathing in the spicy, warm smell of the kalevalan tea-pepper blend, with just a hint of cinna-bark, and drinks. Warmth floods over his tongue, tingling with flavor, and then the sharp sap taste of the gimer comes through, making his mouth feel dry even with the liquid on his tongue. He swallows, and breathes in, and the spiced flavor resurfaces, lingering. He licks his lips a few times, trying to decide if it was unpleasant or merely surprising.

“Well?” His master inquires, looking at him expectantly.

“Interesting.” Obi-Wan agrees.

~*~

Qui-Gon sinks down on the edge of his bed, pondering his neatly folded wardrobe, and has the sinking feeling that he has just been expertly outmaneuvered by a thirteen year old girl.

He runs a hand over his face, scratching at his beard, and sighs.

He cannot place the moment, exactly, when _his_ scolding had somehow turned into _her_ negotiation, nor how his punishment of three weeks assigned meditations with her master was a thing a padawan her age rejoiced over as opposed to being properly chastised, or how he was convinced, exactly, that a ‘compromise’ had been reached when she agreed to undo the damage she had done to his preferred fashion if only he would adopt a belt liner in the same sturdy pink as her tabbards and lightsaber.

 _So we’ll look like we belong together, Master_. She’d said shyly, scuffing one foot on the floor and _staring_ at him with those iridescent blue eyes, hands folded neatly in front of her person.

He’d sensed the trap, but had felt it harmless to agree. Now, only now, did he see quite how neatly he had been put into line, and it irked. And irked more that if he confronted her about it, it would be wounding his own pride for having fallen for it in the first place.

His pride was rather wounded enough.

Though the blow was softened somewhat by her rather considerate sleight of hand. She had not had his shirts and tunics recycled when she replaced his wardrobe, which would have been the proper thing to do – had she _actually_ intended to replace his shirts, that is – but instead had had them cleaned and mended and pressed to be returned to him in peak condition.

Jedi weren’t meant to get attached to things, but the clothes were familiar, and felt like his, and he was glad to have them back, instead of new, sterile tunics from the textile printers.

Sighing again, Qui-Gon fetches his comm-link and call Tahl.

She is coated in dust on the hologram, and beaming from ear to ear. Motes are occasionally picked up by the imager, drifting around her in the air, and there are strange sounds in the background, one of which might be someone shrieking.

“Enjoying Ossus?” Qui-Gon inquires.

“More and more every day.”

Something slams, and more dust motes get picked up by the imager.

“Is everything….” Qui-Gon doesn’t quite know what he means to ask, he is just…concerned.

“Oh…a little remodeling is necessary for us to get to certain areas.” Tahl reports breezily, turning a hand for him to ignore it. “Though it’s rather difficult on Bant, the poor dear, all this dust.”

“I can imagine.” Qui-Gon murmurs, feeling sorry for the girl. Aquatic species such as the Mon Calamar rarely had well-developed filtering systems for dry, particulated atmospheres.

“What do you need, Qui-Gon?” Tahl prompts, when the silence drifts with is thoughts.

“I assigned my padawan mandatory meditation with me and she smiled about it.” Qui-Gon reports. “As far as I recall, that was not a particularly pleasing activity for padawans her age.”

Tahl tilts her head thoughtfully, and dust wafts off her hair, her striped eyes pinching considerately. “Why was she assigned mandatory meditation?”

Qui-Gon explains the situation, and then waits out his best friends laughter exasperatedly, though the sight of it does warm him to the core with care for her.

“Oh, Qui-Gon.” Tahl shakes her head, wiping her eyes and containing herself to once more appear a stalwart Jedi Archivist. “She may be a self-reliant, independent soul, but that doesn’t mean she can’t feel neglected. She wanted your attention, and she did what she felt she needed to to get it.”

“ _Neglected_?” Qui-Gon protests.

“Qui.” Tahl scolds with a single syllable.

“Her classwork is up to par, her training is on schedule, and she conducts herself well.” Qui-Gon explains.

“And outside of that? Qui-Gon, you treat her like an afterthought when you aren’t outright dismissing her. She may flounce off when you send her away, but that doesn’t mean she can’t feel slighted. You took her as your padawan, she’s been your padawan for months, and you can barely tell me a thing about her.”  Tahl sighs, crossing her arms and cocking a hip. “You can’t keep her at a distance in the hopes of then telling yourself it won’t hurt if she fails. She isn’t Xanatos, Qui. She isn’t going to fail.”

“I didn’t think _Xan_ would either.” Qui-Gon bites out. “This is why I swore I wouldn’t take another padawan!”

“And yet you did.”

“Naasade-“

“Qui-Gon Jinn.” Tahl cuts him off shortly. Qui-Gon bites down, grinding his teeth, and throws her a glare. Tahl glares back.

“How he did it, I cannot fathom, but he convinced you to take a padawan for the same reason I have been trying to do so for years – you have to move on. You have to heal. You have to grow. For a Master of the Living Force, you are the most stagnating bastard I have ever met. Let her teach you that you can trust yourself again, Qui. Let her teach you to stop dwelling on the past. What is it you always say? Be in _this_ moment.”

Qui-Gon frowns, sulking for the lecture and knowing that he will pay for it later if he cuts the call in a huff of anger.

“And in this moment,” Tahl presses, her glare softening into fondness, and hope. “ there is a padawan who wants to spend time with her master.”

That inspires a niggle of guilt, and the thought that keeps turning at the back of his mind slips again to the forefront.

_A great Jedi._

_Just not a very good man_.

His pride – and he _is_ prideful – hungers for the first.

But his heart mourns the second, and Qui-Gon knows which of those he’d rather be.

~*~

Obi-Wan sits on a stool in the galley, a crate of parts a pieces on the counter before him, occasionally fiddling with one device or another, but mostly just staring morosely at the collection of lightsaber components, his left hand numb and his right hand aching.

Tsui Choi climbs speedily up onto the stool next him, stopping to peer at him with big green eyes for a pause, and then taps him on the shoulder, and points one blue finger behind Obi-Wan to the table, where his master is also working with lightsaber components.

Obi-Wan twists around curiously, snapping out of his darker and darker thoughts, and winces faintly at the first instinctive look at a very bright light. He blinks a few times, trying to clear out the afterimage from his retinas rather futility, and gets a second look.

Master Ben, hunched over the galley table, has a lensing element set up, shooting a light through his adegan crystal, forming a short-aperture saber-light of just a few inches in height. Beneath it, he was tinkering with – Obi-Wan noted with anxiety – a refraction focusing element over a power cell, like the one in his old lightsaber, to increase the intensity and the power of his lightsaber. He had tiny laster-picks in his hands, and was wearing enhancement goggles, his face inches from the element, tuning it. Gradually, the color of the saber-light, which was purple, shifted.

“Master, what are you doing?” Obi-Wan inquired, hoping the answer was something other than ‘being ridiculous with my face inches from an intense beam of light’.

“Refining the output spectrum.” His master replies, and Obi-Wan thinks he know what that means, but isn’t quite certain he knows what it means.

“And you’re doing this _because_?” Obi-Wan inquires, slipping off his stool and holding out a hand so Tsui can jump down. Tsui doesn’t _need_ to hold his hand to jump down, but Obi-Wan likes to help and Tsui likes to let him.

Master Ben huffs shortly and pulls back, reaching down the table for where his ivory-and-gold lightsaber has been dismanteled, fetching the frame holding the other pair of crystals. He moves the tool holding the adegan in place, lowering it, and slides the other crystals into place _without turning off the power_ , which makes Obi-Wan squeak low in his throat and question where the first-aid kit is.

“Did you just burn yourself?” Obi-Wan demands.

“No.” His master replies calmly, as the crystals click into place. “But as you can see…” He gestures, and the saber-light, combining the copper color of the two kyber crystals and the purple of the adegan, turns a rusty, unsettling red, like dried human blood. “These do not produce a particularly flattering color.”

He pops the crystals back out again - with his _bare_ fingers – and puts them back on the cloth with the rest of his lightsaber components.

“How is yours coming along?” Master Ben asks, looking up at him, and Obi-Wan doesn’t like being looked at through the telescopic goggles.

“Um…”Obi-Wan bites the inside of his cheek, his stomach churning uneasily. “It isn’t.” He admits, turning red when he catches Tsui’s concerned look up at him as the Aleen boy retakes his hand in his tiny blue ones.

Master Ben shifts minutely, and Obi-Wan an feel his focus slide between the two boys.

“Well, with only two proper sabers between us, we’ll have to rely on Master Yaddle and Padawan Choi to save us should the need arise.” Master Ben says pleasantly.

“Volunteer for such duties, I did not.” Master Yaddles says serenely, slipping into the galley, ears perked up. She holds out a wizened hand, and Tsui skips over to her and takes it. A full grown Aleen might reach up to Master Ben’s thigh, but Tsui was still just an inch shorter than Master Yaddle, who reached only Master Ben’s knee.

“Play with sabers, they may.” Yaddle sniffs. “But the study the Force, we shall.” She tells the younger boy, turning to level a steady, wise look at Master Ben, whose mouth thins, but who nods minutely. Tsui glances from his master, to Master Ben, to Obi-Wan, taking in the unspoken communication to give them privacy, and nods. “Clear the table before tea, you must.” Yaddle reminds Master Ben sternly, before she crosses the threshold. “Find machine oil in my cup, I do not wish to.”

“Of course, Master Yaddle.” Master Ben sighs, only a little grumbly about being treated like an errant padawan.

“Hmph.” She replies, and departs. Tsui offers Obi-Wan one on his supportive smiles, and then ducks out after her, the door sliding closed behind him.

“Your friend is very quiet.” Master Ben remarks absently, turning to him and pulling off the goggles, revealing slightly bloodshot blue-grey eyes.

“Anakin’s friend is very quiet.” Obi-Wan corrects. “Tsui just speaks volumes in other ways.”

“I suppose.” Master Ben concedes, setting the goggles on the table, turning off the power cell, which then killed the saber-light, and turning to study his padawan, who began fidgeting the moment Yaddle left the room.

“What is it?” Master Ben asks softly, looking patient and careful and ready to understand, and Obi-Wan squirms, feeling guilty and ashamed and scared, deep down, which made him frustrated, which made him want to tear his hair out, tears welling up without his permission.

“I don’t want to build another lightsaber.” Obi-Wan blurts out explosively, feeling _stupid_. Feeling useless.

“Obi-Wan-“

“That’s a lie.” Obi-Wan cuts him off, quieter. “I don’t _trust_ myself to build another lightsaber. I messed it up, and every time  I pick up those pieces-” He flings a hand towards he crate full of potential components, and the familiar panic wells up, and his right hand throbs in pain, and he feels like he’s choking-

He didn’t see his master get up, or step towards him, until his arms wrap around Obi-Wan’s shoulders and Obi-Wan is shaking, gripping his master shirt, face burning in shame.

“And I just _can’t_.”

“It’s all right to be scared of what happened, Obi-Wan-“

“No it isn’t!” Obi-Wan snaps, jerking back out of his master’s embrace. “Because I don’t even _remember_ it blowing up! Not really. I remember the bolt hitting my lightsaber, and the sound it made. I remember looking up at the sky. I remember seeing the blood on my tunics. I remember Satine being angry at me. And then I was in the medical center. That’s it. That’s nothing to be so _scared_ of!”

“You almost _died_.” His master says firmly, taking him by the shoulders and ducking down so that Obi-Wan is forced to look him back in the eye. “It _hurt_. You have every right to be afraid of that, Obi-Wan Kenobi. But – don’t look away from me!” His master snaps, and Obi-Wan’s gaze snaps back, startled. “But it was _not_ your fault.”

“It was _my_ lightsaber.” Obi-Wan retorts, wiping angrily at a tear that escaped his eye.

“ _Listen_ to me, it was not your fault-“

“It had to be!”

“ _Sa ni sirbur_!” Ben commands sharply, his grip tightening on Obi-Wan’s shoulders, and Obi-Wan’s mouth snaps shut, teeth clicking painfully. He sucks in a hard breath and holds it, caught by his masters steely gaze. Master Ben waits, staring back at him, until Obi-Wan releases the breath in a shuddery rush, slumping into his master’s grip, feeling worn out.

Master Ben guides him to the table and sits him down before crouching down in front of him. There was something in the form of the position that spoke of battle-readiness. Jango Fett crouched down like that too, balance weighed just so, no limb restricting the other.

“It was not your fault.” Master Ben repeats sincerely, and Obi-Wan swallows tightly against a whine.

“But I don’t _understand_.” Obi-Wan declares, voice wavering thinly.

“I know.” Master Ben lets out a tense breath, rubbing a hand along his jaw in agitation, eyes pinned on his padawan’s, grave and intense and calculating, weighing scales and balances Obi-Wan can’t comprehend.

Obi-Wan waits, agitation growing into a cold, forlorn numbness.

It takes a long time for his master to decide, neither of them moving at all in the quiet interim, nothing but the hum of a ship in hyperspace around them.

“Someone did that to you.” His master says quietly, voice so detached and low Obi-Wan doesn’t recognize, at first, that he has said words at all.

“What-?” Obi-Wan’s question is a soft as a breath, and almost just as intangeable.

“Someone did that to you. Obi-Wan.” His master says tightly, voice cold and…dark. “Someone tried to kill you.”

Their gazes are still locked together, and it is Obi-Wan’s time to think, time to calculate and form his own conclusions.

“But they can’t have.” Obi-Wan protests softly, after a few minutes, coming to the same circuitous conclusion. “It was my lightsaber. I would have _noticed_.”

His master continues to stare at him, an unyielding intensity in his gaze, and Obi-Wans thoughts run in circles and circles.

_You can’t just sabotage a lightsaber. They’re built with the Force. They’re tied to their Jedi. How would they even get anything inside the casing? And there was nothing to be found! Master Vumoyo was certain! It would take the Force to even-_

Obi-Wan blinks, mind short-circuiting, and stares back at his master.

“It would take the Force to even open the casing.” Obi-Wan murmurs bluntly, lips feeling numb, spirit wailing denial. “A Jedi _wouldn’t_ do that to me!”

“A Jedi? No.” His master replies, just as firm.

Obi-Wan feels his heart pound, and digs his nails into his thighs, staring back at his master. His master, who danced rings around every other duelist in the Temple. His master, who built his shields into a battleground. His master, who was adding a focusing element to an already absurdly powerful lightsaber. His master, who Obi-Wan had long suspected was training him more for war than for anything else.

His master, who despised Krell for Falling but cared for Quinlan, who understood the Force in ways Obi-Wan had never heard of, who had nightmares sometimes too terrible to acknowledge.

His master, who the Council had always, always kept such a scrutinous eye on, wary of him and unusually obliging towards him in unusual and often fickle-seeming turns.

His master, who came back to Temple and hadn’t stopped turning it over since, with a quiet desperation and bitter sort of determination Obi-Wan had never entirely understood.

“Just tell me.” Obi-Wan pleads, stomach tight with fear.

Master Ben sighs, looking down, long strands of cinnamon air brushing his cheeks. “The Sith have returned to the galaxy.” He admits, glancing back up, eyes full of quiet grief for the look he has just put in his padawans eyes.

“B-but-“ He wants to deny it. Say it’s Darksiders Say it’s pretenders. But Obi-Wan feels like maybe he _knows_ he’ll just be fooling himself. Like maybe he already knew, and he’s been fooling himself all along. “But why are they targeting me? And how? Master?”

Master Ben’s lips quirk faintly, like there is anything _funny_ about it. “All my plots and schemes, and you, Padawan mine, have dealt them more delay and trouble than I had ever hoped of accomplishing.”

“I _still_ don’t understand.” Obi-Wan says, a shrill gurglish tone rising in the back of his throat.

“They had a vested interest in the Yam’rii’s success.” Master Ben tells him. “And they have a vested interest in the Trade Federations monopoly. Both of which you have, advertantly or inadvertently, thwarted to extreme effect.”

“Oh.” Obi-Wan says simply, shocked. And then outraged. “But how do you know about – about all of it? Did the Council tell you?”

“ _I_ told the Council.” Ben mutters. “And they have greatly disliked me for doing so.”

“Is that what it is? _Fucking_ hells!”

“I can say that, and Fett can say that, but you, Padawan, can not.” Master Ben says disapprovingly.

“But the _Sith_! Master, the Sith!” Obi-Wan repeats, reeling. Or oddly calm, and freaking out about how much he isn’t freaking out.

“Yes, the Sith.” Master Ben sighs tiredly, and moves, standing up and peering down at his padawan with a sad sort of fondness. “I had hoped you would be a little older before I had to tell you.”

“And they really….my…” Obi-Wan falters, staring back up at him.

“It was subtle, to be sure.” Master Ben acknowledges. “The suggestion of a whisper of destruction more than anything else, but just enough to cause a cascade failure and destroy your weapon. Luckily, your inner casing was beskar, and thus they failed in destroying you too.”

“They tried to kill me.” Obi-Wan repeats. “What if they try again?”

“They might.” His master says. “They might not. All I can do is teach you, Obi-Wan, and all you can do, for now, is learn.”

There is something else in his master’s gaze, some shadow that Obi-Wan can see him holding back still, but Obi-Wan swallows and takes a steadying breath and does not ask.

He already knows, now, far more than he ever wanted to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MANDO'A:
> 
> Sa ni sirbur = As I say! - a command, like 'pay attention' combined with 'obey' but more intense/severe. 
> 
> AUTHORS NOTES:  
> Ten corellian hells, is what this chapter deserves. Wow. Way more intense than i thought this chapter was going to be, the sith revelation came up as i was addressing Obi-Wans issues and yup, it stayed. I feel like this chapter might overshadow the rest of the story though, so...sorry?


	7. Chapter 7

“Is it supposed to disappear?” Tsui asks curiously, sitting across the table from him and eating a bowl of hot grains and fruit while Ben continues to tweak the output spectrum of the adegan crystal.

“In point of fact,” Ben replies, pleased, as he takes his goggles off. “It was. Can you see the slight shimmer here?” Ben asks, carefully holding his hand behind where the blade he can feel the heat from, but can’t quite look directly at, is still being emitted.

Tsui squints, which, on an Aleen, just makes him look sleepy, and nods, though not entirely convincingly. “It’s…purple. But….an invisible kind of purple. Ultraviolet?” He questions.

“Yes.” Ben says, tone rewarding.

“But…you can’t see your blade. That’s not…good.” The boy tries.

“Well, no.” Ben agrees, reaching for his other crystals and adjusting the clamp so that he can pop them into place. “However…” They click with a snap and a sizzling spark that Ben casually contains with the Force, and the copper blade- or a few inches of it, at least, appears in all its brilliance, now surrounded by the faintest violet halo, like a trick of the eye.

Tsui’s mouth falls open in a delighted, open-mouthed grin. “That’s wizard!” The boy squeaks.

Ben sits back, satisfied, and allows himself enjoy it for a moment. He’s going to have to replace the upper-half of the body of his lightsaber, as he can’t see a way to rework the current casing to fit the new element, though the smooth, organic shape of the grip will stay. He’s grown rather fond of the ivory-and-gold, for all it seemed strange when it came together, so different from his last saber.

“Blind yourself, you will.” Yaddle says, strolling into the galley. “Inconvenient, that would be.” She stops at the edge of the table, peering at the saber herself with a thoughtful sound rumbling in her throat. “A studied hand, you are, at this craftsmanship.” She comments. “Ingenius, your improvements are.” She slides her gaze to her padawan. “Tinker without such study, one should not.” She warns. “Or disastrous, the results can be, of such experimentation.”

“Yes, Master.” Tsui nods, enthusiasm wilting a little.

“Thank you, Master.” Ben says sincerely, a little abashed at the praise.

“And of your padawans lightsaber, the construction, how progresses?” Yaddle inquires, climbing up onto the bench beside her padawan, who quickly offers to share his bowl with her.

“If full, you are, then accept, I shall.” Yaddle agrees, smiling at the boy, which changes the shape of her face. Yaddle had an ingrained gravity to her which so often belied any cheer in her character, but the hard lines were formed by hard work – the Head of the Reconciliation Council dealt with much that was dampening to the spirit, and suffered for it. So a smile was a simple thing, but a grand one just the same.

“Well, he’s actually attempting to assemble one now, which is….progress.” Ben reports. “Though he’s having a harder time feeling what it wants to be. Apparently, his adegans do not like each other.” Ben feels his lips twitch. “According to Obi-Wan, they sort of…argue.”

Which Ben did believe was part of the problem, but the other part was that despite their conversation, Obi-Wan was still hesitant to put together a blade of such power.

Whether that was the lingering fear of what had happened, or of the rumors that had spread in the Temple, Ben wasn’t sure.

Given that only Ben knew of what had truly happened to cause Obi-Wan’s saber to malfunction, rumor had spread that Obi-Wan had not been prepared to handle a saber of such high power, and that it was no wonder the boy had blown it up. It had given the senior padawans Obi-Wan outmatched something to sneer about to sooth their wounded pride, much to Ben’s student’s detriment.

Ben’s solution - when confronted with these rumors by a less than gracious fellow master who had thought scolding Padawan Kenobi to Ben’s face would earn him something, and chastise Ben along the way - was to then give his padawan his own, much higher powered saber, in the interim. Easy enough, considering he, at the time, hadn’t been allowed to carry it himself.

Master Koon had appeared _within the hour_ to tell Ben that it was acceptable for Obi-Wan to carry the blade, provided he not actually _use_ it, and instead utilize a training saber in any spar.

The Council’s reaction when they returned with adegan powered multi-crystal blades was something the both of them were bracing for.

 _If they only knew_ , Ben groused to himself, _how much we’ll need them_.

In the war, for anyone but inexperienced padawans allowed to only fight defensively, a single-crystal blade would simply not have cut it, as technology and armor advanced, the Separatists trying to outgun and outwit their Jedi opponents, and the Sith…Well, they were the Sith. The Jedi had learned the hard way.

They’d also learned the hard way that open battle was not how one wanted to attune themselves to a blade that felt like a barely leashed storm in their hands.

But those were different times. As a War Padawan, Ahsoka had had a multi-crystal blade in her hand when she was no older than Obi-Wan was now, but before all that, it was uncommon for even Knights to have a blade of such power, unless they were particularly gifted in the Force and often sent into situations of combat.

“Willful, adegans can be.” Yaddle nods sagely. “Balance them, Obi-Wan will. In time.”

“Speaking of time…”Ben mentions. “Won’t we be arriving soon?”

“Within the hour, on Stewjon, we shall be.” Yaddle nods. “Eat, you should. And clean up, you will.”

“Yes, Master Yaddle, I will clean this up.” Ben sighs, and her ears rise pointedly. Grumbling, Ben leaves the table to find his own ration, and gently reaches out to Obi-Wan in the Force.

Obi-Wan sends back the blue stream of stars flung by in hyperspace, his view from the pilots chair, and the lulled calm-steady of self-meditation. Obi-Wan had been meditating a lot since Ben had told him of the Sith, when he wasn’t working on his lightsaber or performing katas with his master in the hold, and Ben left him to it. He didn’t seem to be meditating on anything in particular, but centering himself, which Ben believed was probably for the best.

~*~

It should be said, perhaps, that the silent treatment does not have the desired effect on Jedi, who spend much of their time in quite reflection. So it is not the quiet outside herself that Shaak Ti notices, but the quiet of the connection inside her head that slipped away so smoothly she did not notice it going until it was already gone, closed off from the other side.

Upset does not quite cover the depths of what Shmi Skywalker must be feeling, and Shaak Ti aches at the way her padawan withdraws, but reminds herself that Shmi will be better in the long term for what they are setting out to do.

Still, there is withdrawn ,and then there is _gone_ , and for a woman of Shmi’s skills, Shaak Ti feels that she might as well be sharing this ship with a ghost. Which was unfortunate, as the _Red Kettle_ was the property of the ghost in question.

Jedi were not meant to possess property in the traditional sense, their possessions shared and put to use as needed by the Jedi collectively, but the ship was still Shmi’s ship, something she could call hers, and had control over, and could do with as she pleased. Which for the most part seemed to be rebuilding it from the inside out with parts and designs she developed and built herself using the resources now at her disposal. Shaak had certainly heard enough from the Chief Mechanics about it, as they attempted to abscond with her padawan from time to time.

Still, two can play the game, and Shaak was a Master Shadow herself. Ghosting around each other in the small vessel was proving to be a creative test of their senses and skills, which in itself formed a sort of peace-offering even in the midst of their disagreement.

At the moment, however, Shmi was practicing with her sabers in the hold, the sound thrumming down the walls of the ship, and Shaak Ti was meditating on one of the two small bunks, trying to feel out the katas her padawan was practicing through the sound and sense-vibrations alone.

Which makes the sudden drop from hyperspace galling, as the ship rings like a bell. Shaak stands even as she reaches up to sooth her montrals, wincing, and Shmi appears abruptly from the hold, pale in the face.

“Was that a malfunction?” Shaak Ti inquires, trusting her padawans mechanical skills far more than her own.

Shmi stares at her, and shakes her head minutely, her outline blurring as if the galaxy itself would swallow her up and make her disappear where she stood.

“Then we appear to be early.” Shaak remarks thoughtfully, stepping towards the cockpit.

“I…altered the hyperdrive.” Shmi says, voice small. Shaak glances back at her, worrying over the space in her mind where her connection with Shmi should be, and is instead numb.

 _She altered the hyperdrive_. Shaak Ti thinks, both impressed and quietly glad that nothing blew up. _Of course she did_. _Because that is something you just_ do.

They both make their way into the cockpit, and there, gleaming a dull orange in the black of space, lit in two shades by binary suns, was Tatooine.

~*~

The port at Stewjon is just as Ben remembers it, manned mostly by droids, occupied mostly by passers-through. And all it is is a port, a waystation. There are no other settlements, no society, no peoples, of Stewjon. Just endless plains of dappled grey grass, red stone, and the occasional body of water.

“Maybe my parents were spacers.” Obi-Wan murmurs, standing at his side. As he had yet to actually construct his lightsaber, he was relegated to carrying a satchel filled with all his prospective components – and, for convenience, the ones Ben might need as well. According to Yaddle, they would have to beg a ride on a nebulan transport if they wished to actually enter it unharmed.

Speaking of Yaddle; “Spacers, your people are not.” She mutters, and continues on past with nothing further while both Obi-Wan and Ben stare after her. In her wake, Tsui turns and shrugs apologetically at them, and then continues after the diminutive green master.

Yaddle leads them past various maintenance bays and shops and bars, Obi-Wan and Tsui wide eyed in taking it all in, while Ben walks at the rear, keeping an eye out. There aren’t much for crowds, but there are enough people here that Ben spots gamblers, and bounty hunters, and a few quick-stepping pickpockets among the cargo-haulers and smugglers, tradesfolk and wanderers.

Tsui pauses at one point and tugs on Obi-Wan’s sleeve, pointing out a small group of humans with familiar fair skin and red-hued hair. Obi-Wan brightens, and Ben thinks that perhaps he should have thought about this further. Obi-Wan’s hair was a darker, richer red than his own golden-brown-red cinnamon locks, which had faded with age and sun, his skin clear, where Ben’s had freckled from harsh exposure, and his eyes still more blue-green than blue-grey, and with a little mental suggestion that they were more different than alike, people didn’t much notice their resemblance as anything other than vague coincidence. In such a diverse place as the Jedi Temple, two humans looking vaguely alike was easily dismissed as a matter of race. Among an entire population who shared highly similar traits, it would be far more glaring. Lowering his chin but keeping his gaze up, Ben draws his hood over his head.

Finally, Yaddle winds their way to the portmasters office, where there are less travelers, more droids, and more of those same humans, mixed with a few blue-skinned near-humans who saw them and made themselves discreet. The red-haired humans eye them curiously, but when Obi-Wan steps towards them, eager to open a conversation, they turn away.

Ben probably should have warned his padawan about that.

“There aren’t any younglings here.” Tsui comments quietly, movig to stand next to Obi-Wan and lean into his space, though he is speaking to Ben, as Yaddle deals with the Portmaster.

“It’s an outpost. All the people who work here are merely watchmen. They don’t bring their children here.” Ben explains what little he knows. “They are rather…insular.”

“Yeah.” Obi-Wan says glumly, still staring after the other people – the ones who are supposed to be _his_ people. Ben steps closer and tugs gently on his padawan’s braid, before dropping his hand to Obi-Wan’s shoulder, offering a quiet comfort.

One of the watchmen glances back, gaze flitting between the two of them, and the point of contact, with an evaluative look in their eyes.

“Passage, I have acquired.”

Ben startles, hand clenching on his padawans shoulder, because he had not noticed Yaddle returning despite the fact that she was nearly on his feet. She was lucky he hadn’t kicked her. Obi-Wan jerks a bit for the hard spasm, and then carefully pries his master’s fingers loose. Ben gives him an apologetic look, sending an equally apologetic feeling down their bond. His padawan sends a weary sort of acceptance back at him, and a questioning sensation of concern.

Ben just sends him his sheepishness, and his padawan sighs, patting the hand he has removed from his shoulder. Ben is still keeping an eye around the room, and the watchman is definitely interested in them now.

Ben glances back at them, letting them know he’s aware of them, and then glowers down at Yaddle, who is entirely unperturbed. “Prepare ourselves, we must.”

The padawans glance at each other, and then at Ben, as if he could explain. They were Jedi, they had everything they needed with them already. They _were_ prepared. Ben is equally as confused.

“Come.” Yaddle beckons, striding away with a brief flap of her robe, just whispering against the floor at her heels. “Time, we have. Show you, I will. Then look at me like foolish _I_ am, you will not.”


	8. Chapter 8

Knight Dahvo thinks that perhaps he should have put more thought into his response, and not replied to “I’m bored” with “Hello, bored, I’m meditating.” And then proceeded to relax when Anakin quietly walked away again with a put-upon sigh.

Ten minutes later, Dahvo had completed his meditation to his satisfaction, and Anakin Skywalker was nowhere to be found.

Concerned, but not distressed, Dahvo searched first his quarters, then the outside corridor, and proceeded from there to the crèche, where he assumed Anakin might go in search of his friends, though the four year old should know better than to wander the Temple without a chaperone.

But then, he was only four. Discipline was not a youngling’s forte, even in the Temple.

His arrival in the crèche and questioning the whereabouts of Anakin Skywalker revealed the absence of young Jax Pavan, whose crèchemaster often struggled to remember the boy, quiet and new as he was to his clan, and as often as he was out with the Skywalkers.

Slightly ditressed, as two younglings often create far more trouble together than one ever could alone, Dahvo heads towards the Room of a Thousand Fountains, hoping dearly he will find them playing there.

He does not, though several padawans help him search, each one coming up empty.

Dahvo does not want to call Master Ti and Padawan Skywalker two days into his duty to explain that he can’t find the youngling they entrusted him with. Wracking his mind, he light on the idea that they might go to the mechanics, where Padawan Skywalker spent her earlier days. Trusting his instincts and quelling a real sense of distress, he proceeds towards the flight and maintenance bays in the lower levels of the Temple.

Thank the Force, he does. Curse the Sith, he finds them racing hodge-podge homemade speeder-karts and shrieking in delight as they attempt to crash into walls, each other, and the odd maintenance droid, being thwarted each time by the little vehicles safety protocols.

“ _Anakin_!” Dahvo calls in alarm, and the boy woops joyously, waving at him and grinning wide under a pair of goggles. “Jax!”

“They’re all right.” Someone says, and Dahvo’s ears twitch, as he looks down at an Aleen Initiate, barely the height of Dahvo’s knee. He holds up a controller-pad, so Dahvo can see the display on the screen, monitoring the vehicles programming, power-levels, and safety systems.

“Where did you get that?” Dahvo wonders, looking around to figure out which mechanic was insane enough to hand over the karts and then disappear, leaving younglings to mind themselves.

“I built it.” The initiate says irritably. “And the karts.”

Dahvo flicks an ear, taken aback. “That’s impressive, Initiate…?”

“Paratus.” The boy says, bowing shortly and then returning his gaze to the controller-pad while Jax and Anakin make another swerving loop and then circle around the pair before Anakin slams on the brakes and Jax shoots past him, coming back around more slowly and rolling to a soft stop.

“Did it work?” Anakin asks Initiate Paratus. “I didn’t hit nothing.”

Paratus nods, blinking slowly, and shows Anakin the pad. “Rear contact reaction is a little slow, but that’s placement, not the sensors themselves. I’ll fix it.”

“Spec-tac-ular!” Anakin grins. Jax climbs out of his kart and moves to stand just beside Anakin, leaning over his shoulder to look at the pad too. The younger boy nods, and then peels off his goggles and then Anakin’s, handing them over politely. “Can we help?” Anakin asks, unfazed by being handled by his friend.

The Aleen boy looks back at the pair, and then up at Knight Dahvo. “I think not this time.” Paratus replies, and Davo nods.

“No. Not this time. This time, Anakin gets to come with me and have a very serious talk about communication.” Dahvo chides, crossing his arms.

Anakin huffs, putting his hands on his hips and looking adorable. “I _told_ you I was bored.”

Jax, who wasn’t even there, nods supportively of that argument.

Knight Dahvo sighs.

~*~

“Collapse, under the force of a tide, a fortress will. However, survive, it can, if open a path for the tide, it does.” Yaddle tells them, sitting on a cargo crate in the hanger bay for the vessel that is to take them into the nebula. “Strong in the Force, you are. Strong in the Force, is the nebula. Pulled to each other, you will be. Consume you, it can, if resist the tide, you do.”

“No.” Ben says shortly, arms crossed. “Whose idea was this?” He demands. “No. _No_. They are padawans. Channeling that much-“

“Hush, you should.” Yaddle taps her stick sharply on the crate, looking at him with narrowed eyes. “One with the Force, all things are. A challenge, this is. Against your teachings, it goes, hm? Against what the Temple has taught you, yes. Guarded, our minds should be. Careful, that our thoughts are our own, we are. Good, this is. To go deep into the Force, dangerous, it can be. Lose yourselves, you can. Your worry, I understand. But trust, you should have. With you, am I not?”

Ben glowers back at her. “You are asking us to let something else flow through our minds, flow through our connection with the Force.”

“Let the tide carry you, yes.” Yaddle nods.

“What about Force-Nulls?” Tsui inquires politely. “Can they not enter the nebula?”

“Call to them so strongly, the nebula will not. But still dangerous, it is. Test their minds, their senses, it will. Reject them, it may.”

“You make it sound…alive.” Obi-Wan says warily.

“Hmmm.” Yaddle hums. “Alive, it is not. But of life, the Force is. A sapience, it has, like your adegans, yes?”

“But then whole nebula?” Obi-Wan questions. “It’s _massive_.”

Ben has buried the memories of Mortis deep, but he still knows what happened there. He does not feel that this is in any way a good idea. If the nebula was a wellspring, a massive, sapient wellspring…

“Let your fear control you, you do.” Yaddle scolds him, and Ben slides out of his thoughts. He shifts his balance under her stern gaze. “But born here, was I. Born here, was Obi-Wan Kenobi.” She says pointedly. “Within us, it is. Trust, you should have.”

“Um…” Tsui pipes up uncertainly, gesturing to himself, and then to Ben.

“Teach you, I will.” Yaddle says. “If settle his nerves, Master Naasade does.”

Ben lowers is brows, shooting her an affronted look. She looks back unimpressed, and Ben nods shortly, sitting down with a sweep of his robe, settling into a meditative position, his knee just brushing against his padawans. Obi-Wan leans over and jostles him.

“This can’t be what gets the better of you, Master.” Obi-Wan says reassuringly. “I’m sure of it.”

Ben looks back into his earnest blue-green eyes, and his youth, and his faith, and grumbles under his breath about it. Obi-Wan smiles, ducking his head, and the both of them pay attention to Master Yaddle as she guides them.

~*~

Shmi had the blood-thunder in her ears, her breath coming sharp and fast, standing in the shadow of their ship. Sand whispered around her boots, and a dry desert wind chafed her face and pulled at her hair. The suns beat down, and her blood thundered.

She wanted to turn and run away. Not back into the little ship that had carried her to freedom, but into the vast of deep desert, where all the stories of her people were.

Shaak Ti had promised her they would never near Gardulla’s domain, but in Shmi’s opinion, Jabba’s was no better. The city of pale pour-stone and solar frames, canvas and clay that laid before them was just as every other on this planet, a place of Depur and Slaves, greed, gambling, cruelty and misery and worse, indifference.

Shmi licked her lips, and the suns stole the moisture back just as quickly, and in so simple an act, she remembered the desperation of her former life, resettling in her bones like a reclaimed jacket slung over her shoulders.

“Shmi?” Shaak Ti says softly, calling her attention. The taller togrutan woman had a scarf wrapped over her montrals, to protect them from a sand-wind, and for a moment Shmi saw her not with her own eyes, but with Depur’s. Shaak Ti was beautiful, with that vibrant patterned skin and shining silver eyes, proud cheeks. She was healthy, in her prime. Strong. She had a pretty voice. Each of these things tallied and marked had their own price, and Shmi feels her eyes burn with the numbers.

She hadn’t known, before, just how _cheap_ those things were, when in her own privation, such wealth had seemed worlds beyond reach.

“What must we do?” Shni asks sharply, turning away from her _marrat_ in shame.

Shaak Ti sighs quietly, and Shmi may have closed their connection, but she can still feel the pressure of the other woman’s sadness, and offer of comfort, and steely determination, through what she now knows but once didn’t was the Force. “You tell me, Shmi.” She says.


	9. Chapter 9

Obi-Wan, Ben, Tsui and Yaddle all huddle in their seats in the small passenger streamer that has elected to take them into the nebula, waiting and pleading for it to take off. Yaddle seems the least bothered, sitting with her eyes closed and her mouth a thin line, but the rest of them hunch over and cradle their heads, holding their shields down while the entire port tries to pour itself into their skulls, so many different voices, emotions, echoes of memory. It’s just… _loud_. And the whisper of the Force becomes chaotic and uncertain, cluttered with everything else. Yaddle had had them press even their natural mental resistance down, which was easier for Obi-Wan than anyone else, after the debacle on Tavorski and the way he and his master rebuilt his shields into his natural defenses.

The pilot and copilot, Obi-Wan thinks had taken one look at the four of them and made bets on which of them would snap when they went through the nebula.

She’d looked startled when Obi-Wan glowered at her grumpily for it, and it took him a second to realize it was because she hadn’t spoken to her co-pilot at all. Their interaction had been entirely down a mental bond, more _image-emotion-intent_ than voiced thought.

Startled, and then intrigued, eyeing his hair and his looks, not so different from her own.

The rough-edged hypersensitivity fades some as they leave Stewjon, but heading into the nebula feels like approaching the maw of an intense pressure storm, prickly and claustrophobic and exhilarating.

For his master’s sake, Obi-Wan hoped the actual flight would be much smoother than the way it all felt in the Force.

It starts as pressure, deep inside in a place not quit touchable. The pressure builds into a hum, into a buzz that makes his insides quiver and his bones ache, clouding his mind like an endless swarm of bees, more and more oacked until his skull was riven with it, inescapable, and then it peaks, and melts into a drumming like rain, and the rain turns into music, and –

Tsui gasps, sitting up startled in his seat, held in place by the safety straps, his eyes staring wide through the wall across from him. One small blue hand reaches out, his eyes unfocused. “Can you see that?” He traces something in the air, his face alit with wonder. “It’s like bridges…like you can follow one star to another-“ He tries to get up, to go, and Yaddle reaches blindly over to her padawan, ensuring he is in fact buckled in. Her ears are perked, and the lines of her face deeply relaxed for once, making her seem a century younger. She hums a little, low in her throat.

Obi-Wan can feel the music, not anything defineable into words or real sound, curling around his thoughts, and his bones, and his skin, like the breath of some great _other_ wafting over him. He looks to his master, his mind half dragged away by the music, by the layer-by-layer _rising_ he feels within himself, like when he and Quinlan had reached out for each other –

His master is sitting limp, staring away into the back of the ship with tears running down his face, but the look on it, his expression, is utterly indefinable, like he has found something he thought forever lost, and it is both a blessing and a nightmare.

Obi-Wan opens his mouth to call for his masters attention, concerned, but before he can speak, that great _other_ thing swallows him, and the world, and everything.

_He is flying_

_Over a desert. And dotting the wasteland_

_Are oasis._

_A thousand upon a thousand verdant springs_

_But all_

_The wretched creatures drink_

_from a single well._

_He falls._

_Dropping from the sky like an end._

_Into the well,_

_and watches_

_The water swirl over and over him, turning_

_Black._

_He drowns._

_And they drink, and they drink, and they are poisoned._

_Because it is only from the well that they drink._

_And not the thousand upon a thousand verdant springs._

_A white lily_

_Reaching for the sun_

_Blooms defiantly on barren ground._

_Oil seeps through the silt and fire catches the fields_

_But does not burn well._

_There is little to burn at all._

_It smolders_

_And smokes_

_And the smoke smothers the sun._

_The lily withers_

_Blackens_

_Dies._

_The sky weeps_

_And the rain is blood._

_The ground does not wash clean_

_But it is no longer barren._

_One and a thousand more lilies bloom_

_Their seeds_

_Sown_

_By the death of the first._

_A star rises_

_Brilliant and beautiful._

_It burns._

_A star collapses_

_Into a black hole_

_That swallows the galaxy._

_And._

_Gives birth_

_To_

_A_

_New_

_Universe._

_And it happens again_

_And again_

_And again_

_And again._

“But why does it collapse – why does it collapse. But why-“ He can barely hear his own voice, breaking through the assault of emotional, overwhelming images searing through his head, and he claws and the hands that are touching him, trying to get them _off_ -

“Padawan. _Padawan_! Obi-Wan!”

“But why does it collapse-“ Obi-Wan stutters again, the white-over of his vision fading starkly into sharp contrasts that resolve into his master’s face, the man’s typically well-coifed hair in disarray, as if he’d run his fingers through the shoulder-length locks several times in agitation.

It’s his hands Obi-Wan is digging his nails into, carefully cupped around the padawans face, trying to get him to look at him and _see_ him.

“S-sorry.” Obi-Wan mutters, confused, and carefully removes his fingers. His master relaxes, eyes softening, and shifts one hand to tug on the padawan braid, letting the other drop down to rest on a knee, crouched in front of Obi-Wan’s seat as he was.

“No need for apologies.” His master says fondly, looking him over with a keen eye. “How was your first trip through a massive Force wave?” He inquires, tipping his head back over his shoulders in the direction of the other Master-Padawan pair. “Padawan Choi thought he could walk through the hull of the ship to follow the connections between stars.”

“Could he though?” Obi-Wan inquires, still feeling the seedlings of the intense, unwieldable power left behind inside himself.

Master Ben shrugs. “If he gave up enough of himself, perhaps.”

Obi-Wan blinks a few times at that answer, still reeling, still feeling out the spaces inside himself, where the music still resides, like the shadow of a beast still watching him, but settled with his existence in its domain. “I saw things. Not – I don’t know what Tsui saw, but I didn’t see that. They felt like…” Obi-Wan frowns, trying to grasp the sheer magnitude of something he doesn’t think his brain was entirely equipped to handle. “Prophecies. Or warnings? I don’t know, Master. My head hurts.” Obi-Wan whines.

Master Ben offers him a slightly rattled grin. “So does _mine_.” He admits.

~*~

Tatooine herself does not, per se, have much to offer. Commodities are few and far between, water and fuel resources scarce, and food was…eclectic, to say the least. A mix of wild plants that could not be cultivated, cultivated vegetables that could be grown in hydroponic cellars, and anything from vermin such as womprats to stinging insects to slain krayt dragon, though the slaves wouldn’t touch it.

However.

It would be equally fair to say that while Tatooine does not have much herself to offer, there is a market here for _anything_. Some of the prices are fair, some outrageous, and some pitiable. As Shmi was reluctant to be forthcoming, Shaak Ti encouraged a walk through the winding markets, asking casual questions of this or of that to engage her padawan. Handing over credits, when Shmi seemed to eye a thing to long or too critically. Japoor snippets, like wooden ivory. Some kind of small ribbon that was not ribbon, but an intricate if un-eye-catching piece of weavework. Sometimes Shmi just liked to look through junk and criticize things, and, well, once she started to doing that.

She blossomed, and Shaak Ti watched in utter _outrage_ as her padawan went tongue-lashing for tongue-lashing and toe to toe in argument with a snarling Dug, and showed all the dignity and steel that seemed to vanish when it came to her diplomatic lessons.

“Shmi _Skywalker_.” Shaak Ti pulls her aside once she’s cowed the reprobate Dug, scanning the younger womans face, whichhas once more smoothed over into an implaceable, dull mask. “Where is all that when I put you in a room with a petty squabble of vice governors?” Shaak Ti demands.

Shmi frowns, her nose crinkling in much the way her sons does when confused. “I don’t understand.”

“Shmi.” Shaak Ti protests. “That was brilliant.” Shaak Ti praises, earning a flustered blush that never failed to make her want to ring the neck of Gardulla the Hutt and hug the ex-slave tightly.

Unfortunately, the one and only time Shaak Ti had surprised her padawan with a hug, she’d also ended up with a cracked rib. Shmi was a kind and gentle soul, but her reflexes were brutal. “You danced verbal rings around him without once showing emotional or physical compromise, and you did so with ease. I’ve seen you trade and barter and bargain, Shmi. You have a natural gift for diplomacy that frankly I envy.” Shaak flashes a rueful grin, with just enough teeth to emphasize her sharper temper.

“He is a tradesman.” Shmi says, attempting to answer the origiona question. “I know what he is, and what his world looks like, and what his wares are worth. He is not like a senator or…or a governor or a _king_. They are….” Shmi’s expression closes off. “…beyond me.” She finishes quietly, almost hopelessly.

“They are all just people, Shmi.” Shaa Ti insists. “And not a one of them is beyond you. Not one. If you think their lives are worlds away from yours, that you are a stranger there and lost – then think of this; what would they be worth, and capable of, in your world? In your deep desert? What makes them so different from you then? What makes them worthy? Are they even worthy?” Shaak Ti adds, lifting a brow.

“I am – I was a slave.” Shmi shakes her head, and turns her face away, her presence drawn in on herself. “You do not understand. What am I to a duchess, when I have been less than a person? What does it matter what they would be in my desert? They are not there. They are in their world, and in their world…I know where my place would be, in _their_ world.” She says bitterly. “I do not need to speak, and be reminded of it.”

Shaak Ti stares at her, a sub-audible hum in her montrals of sorrow and her throat closed in frustration. “You are a Jedi.” Shaak Ti manages levelly.

Shmi stares back at her, and feels strongly enough of an equal sorrow and frustration that Shaak Ti can taste it in the Force. “You say that as if being a Jedi were _enough_.” Shmi whispers.

Shaak Ti balks. “Shmi…”

The human woman shakes her head and takes Shaak Ti by the arm, striding her away from the shadow of the shop and down the market, brushing shoulders with freefolk and smugglers, mercenaries, drug-runners, slaves, prostitutes, refugees, bounty-hunters, gamblers, moisture farmers and the odd stranded spacer with impunity. Shaak Ti can feel the despair up ahead as if it were a tall tower in the midst of the settlement, casting its shadow over them as they walked.

The slave market was a wretched place. Even the air felt heavy and hard to breath, and despair scratched at their skin like the grit in a sandstorm. She could smell the sour metallic of blood, drop by drop soaked into the sand year after year after year, and the blood was the kindest of the smells here. Filth and misery were a taste, were a grease you could feel but couldn’t scrub off, and even at the height of midday, this place felt like it was plunged in shadow, a few degrees colder than everywhere else.

Shmi jerks to a halt just before entering the square, where they could hear the cries of ragged, desperate voices, outside and inside their heads. “We are on my world.” Shmi says sharply, voice low and unhappy. “We are Jedi, and this-“ She points jerkily towards the slave market. “this is our enemy, is it not? This is _evil_. We are here, Shaak Ti. We are Jedi. Are we _enough_?” Shmi demands. “Are we enough for them? Jedi come and go, _marrat_ , and my people are still _here_.”

Tears gleam on her dark lashes, and Shaak Ti looks away, looks towards the stained sands and the wretched collection of people broken beyond hope, and feels a desperate, bitter shame overcome her.

“No.” Shaak Ti replies, angry with herself. “I suppose we are not.”

She won’t avert her eyes, not from the elder standing wearily at a post, not from the twi’lek youngling with hollow cheeks and a distended stomach, lekku blistered with sun, not from the burly-backed human make, body littered with scars and packed with muscle, who keeps his head bowed and his eyes down, meekly shuffling as he is prodded with the blunt handle of a vibro-whip. Her eyes sting, and her throat burns.

 _We are not enough._ Shaak Ti commits that to herself, brands it into her soul as a blistering reminder that they are failing, once more.

_But we should be._


	10. Chapter 10

‘ _Little Elder_?’ The co-pilot gets Yaddle’s attention, and Obi-Wan twitches for the unnerving dissonance he feels from overhearing a mental conversation.

Yaddle hops off of her seat and moves towards the cockpit, pausing to gently pat her sleeping padawan’s shoulder on the way. Tsui had gotten sick shortly after the Force high wore off, experiencing a nasty case of vertigo as his senses realigned into regular dimensions, limited by a physical body. Obi-Wan himself had also gotten a nasty headache, but instead of feeling sick his emotions had rocked from one end to the other, leaving him drained and exhausted. Master Ben, curse him, had come off it looking alert and vitalized, and Yaddle had seemed as if all the world was merely cozy.

“Are we approaching your planet?” The mandalorian master inquires softly, breeching the silence of the cabin.

“Permission, we need.” Yaddle says, just as softly. “Verify our reasons, for our presence, they must. Outsiders….unwelcome, are.”

The pilot and co-pilot both emit soft waves of irritation, for their verbal communication.

“My identity, verification enough, it will be.” Yaddle assures them, and then moves up next to the copilot.

The Jedi wait quietly, and Yaddle returns, and they can feel the slight shift in pressure as the vessel enters an atmosphere.

Rather quickly. Obi-Wan glances at his master, who lifts one hand to press against the hull, eyes keen on the entrance to the cockpit, body primed as if to explode into action, though Obi-Wan doesn’t know what his master thinks he’ll _do_ if they crash.

Obi-Wan shifts in discomfort as a feeling builds low in his belly, a weight he isn’t used to, tugging at his balance. His ears pop. Tsui moans, curling up into a tighter ball in his seat. They almost don’t notice the landing at all, until the engines whine down. The ship sort of…buoys as it touches the surface, and Obi-Wan isn’t so sure about that either.

When they open the rear hatch and a wave of hot, muggy, brine-like air rolls into the cabin, Master Ben gags a little and unbuckles quickly. He staggers a little as he stands, and takes a careful step, before rocking his balance back and forth. The vessel moves a little as well. Whatever they’ve landed on, it isn’t solid ground.

“Higher gravity than we’re used to.” His master reports, squinting out the door. He glances down at Obi-Wan. “It’ll be harder on us then them, I imagine.” He adds dryly, gesturing to Tsui and Yaddle, whose natural biology was engineered for higher gravity than galactic average.

Obi-Wan offers his master a thumbs up, unbuckles, stands, and trips into the older mans side. “Take a moment.” His master chides.

“It’s a little hard to breathe.” Obi-Wan murmurs with disquiet, the hot damp of the atmosphere already sticking to his skin. His master lays a hand on his shoulder, smooths a comforting circle with his thumb, and then pushes Obi-Wan first out the door.

~*~

Shmi and Shaak Ti had parted ways after their argument near the slave market, both of them needing to clear their heads and neither of them able to do so with the uneasy tension between them, thrumming loud in the quiet.

Shmi had hurried away from that place, old terrors nipping at her heels, and moved back towards the brighter markets, though the stalls held less interest now, soured by the shame she feels for this upset between her and Shaak, though she can not find it within herself to regret.

“Tell you a fortune, dear daughter?” An elderly weequay grins at her from one heavily draped stall, rattling womprat bones in a cup, and Shmi smiles for the gambit she has seen a thousand times, and shakes her head. He wails in upset, as exaggerated as they always were, and Shmi moves on.

“Fertilizer! Best fertilizer!” A boy calls, crack-lipped and jumping up and down.

Shmi listens to wind and sand whisper around baked pottery, snap against canvas and synth-silk and poly-cot, clink chimes and beads. She can smell barbecue up ahead, and butchers raw meat, and the lightest touch of fruit, baking in the suns. She’s moving towards the food stalls, and the throng of people is getting thicker.

She twists a pickpockets hand when the girl dart around her, earning only a sheepish smile and a hard push as the girl then darts off, impressed but still skittish of being truly caught. She curses at a toydarian that spits at her and helps an elderly twi’lek back to his feet when he’s all but thrown to the ground by a reckless speeder zipping down the road. He touches his lips and then pats her hand to thank her, and Shmi can tell he has no tongue, and wonders how old he was when his master cut it out.

This is the life she remembers, the people, the sounds and smells, the deep roots beneath it all that bind her to a stranger, and the shadow that lives in the height of the sun, reminding them all that this is Depur’s domain.

“Pallies! Water! Fresh pallies!” A wizened voice calls, and Shmi feels a jolt slam through her, twisting on her feet and pushing through the crowd in an unmannerly haste. She does not care. Let herself be undignified, let herself be noticed-

“Got sweet pallies and water!”

“Ma Jira?” Shmi calls, pushing past a pair of Ubese who sign angrily at her, sun shining off their boxy black helmets. Shmi pauses only to give them a sign in return that she is certain will be universally understood to express her equal displeasure. They squawk, tossing their hands up, and grumble away, one of them kicking sand in her direction. Shmi, certain she won’t be earning retaliation by turning her back, now that the Ubese are far enough way, turns back towards the line of narrow, rickety stalls, scanning for a face she has not seen since she was a girl, but whose voice she swore-

“Ma Jira!” Shmi calls highly, spotting a wealth of silver braids around a desert-browned face, and almost alarming green eyes set in their cavities. The elder woman spots her in turn, and her face transforms into lines, all pouring into her brilliant smile. Ma Jira had always had a strong smile.

“Shmi?” Jira calls back, a clay jug on water clasped in her hands. “ _My_ Shmi?”

Shmi grins and runs to her, as Jira carefully sets the jug down, wary not to spill a drop of precious water, not even for this.

Shmi folds into her embrace as freely as Anakin would Shmi’s own, wrapping herself up in the other woman as if her arms were strong enough to will the universe to never part them.

“Shmi, oh Shmi.” Ma Jira croons, petting her hair, and Shmi wants to sob. Jira was freeborn, but she was also Amavikka, and she had been a slave-mother, regardless of their different circumstance. She had Shmi’s mother, once, before Shmi had been sold to Gardulla. “You’re all grown. You’re….let me see.” She grips Shmi’s shoulders with hands that are stronger than a woman her age and feeble-look should be, and presses the younger woman back to get a look at her. She cups a hand to Shmi’s cheek in a brief caress, thumb riding the underside of her lashes, brushing away water. “You know not to waste that.” She sighs, and Shmi lays her own hand over Jira’s calloused, age-spotted one.

“I know, Amu.” Shmi murmurs. Jira looks her up and down.

“Shmi? Were you freed?” Jira asks in awe, striking green eyes searching her face with hope.

“I was.” Shmi nods, her throat closing up. “I was, Amu. I’m….I am a Jedi now.” Shmi falters. “Or…I am trying to be.” She shakes her head, frustrated and her heart crying out in so many directions. “I don’t know what I am.” She confesses.

“That is not like you, _She-Who-Sees-The-Way_.” Jira says kindly, and reaches for Shmi’s hands with a soft tut, pulling her in. “Come, sit.” She ushers. “Tell me _everything_.”

~*~

“Does it have a name?” Tsui asks softly of the planet, trailing after Yaddle as she set out from the ship, landed on a buoyant pod in murky water, one of several identical pods, each connected to a thin, woven bridge, lined with stone posts that illuminated faintly, even in full daylight. The twisting, arching trees where _massive_. As tall as any cityscape, some nearly as thick around as the Temple towers, the canopy painted in broad swathes of yellow, green, and black.

“A name, it has never needed.” Yaddle replies. “Spoken within us, it is.” She says, and broadcasts what feels like a memory but cannot be a memory, of swirling steam, and the silver flash of water beneath the trees from high above, and something….warm and deep and ancient, all-encompassing for a brief moment before the impression fades.

Ben takes a deep breath as it goes, still struggling with the humidity and the heaviness, but his senses are moving beyond that struggle now, and he can taste the potency in the air. The planet itself was strong in the Force. Not as the nebula was, not as an entity, but as a source.

Yaddle leads them from the reed-bridges onto more stable ground, which isn’t ground at all but a path of woven roots, grown into a road, which smaller plants have settled into, grasses and mosses and mushrooms clinging to the bark and perching in little nooks and crevices left in the weaving. The deep water occasionally stirs, steam and insects a constant above it. Strange calls sound in the trees, and water drips down off higher leaves. It is utterly, inescapably _wet_.

Ben does not like it.

They walk for several miles, their pilot and copilot having stayed with the ship, and Ben can see the odd construction here and there, but nothing breaks from the landscape. All of it, from the waymarkers to what may have been outposts or some kind of sentry-point or perhaps even scattered homes are worked out of the planet and water, as if everything simply grew into what was needed.

Which implies a mastery of the Living Force so complete Ben thinks Qui-Gon Jinn would be struck dumb by it, and possibly worship at the peoples feet for even a fraction of such wisdom.

Finally, the root-road turns into clearings and more readily identifiable structures – walls and gazeboes that held gardens, terraces that wrapped massive trees, and a city-hive made of a grove of such scale Ben would believe this was a world of giants, and not of Yaddle’s small stature.

“Wow.” Obi-Wan breathes. “ _mesh'la cuyir cet'jaon ibic haa'taylir_ …”

“I did not.” Tsui huffs. “Understand.” The Aleen struggles a little, keeping up with his master, who has no such problem with being winded as the three of them do. “A word of that.”

“Something close to ‘beauty is nothing next to what I see’.” Ben offers the boy, who then gives Obi-Wan a speculative look. Ben pants, and shoves another wet lock of hair back from his face with a growl of irritation.

“There aren’t any lights.” Obi-Wan notices, craning his neck and straining his eyes, even augmenting them with the Force. “Or generators…or… _technology_.”

“Need such frivolous things, my people do not.” Yaddle says. “Wise, they are. Content, they are. Have the Force, they do, and the world, which provides. What else, need they, hm?”

“But…what about medicine? Or housing? Or transport? Or connecting with their galactic neighbors?”

“Need _technology_ for such things, do we?” Yaddle harumphs, much as Yoda might. “Open your eyes, you should, and see, how my people fare.”

“Um…where _are_ your people?” Tsui inquires, looking around as they enter an arch not unlike a gate, that towers hundreds of feet above their heads. Vines trails down, and some kind of bird flutters between them in twirling flocks.

“About, they are.” Yaddle replies. “See them, we will, when wish to see us, they do.”

“And until then, Master Yaddle?” Ben inquires short-temperedly, his feet squelching in his boots.

“Patience, young Jedi.” She murmurs. “Patience.”


	11. Chapter 11

There is a certain rhythm, Shaak Ti has learned, to slaver cities. A certain sort of pattern that transcends star systems and cultures and everything from empires like Zygerria to backwaters like Tatooine. She can feel herself picking apart the pattern here and now, as she walks back through the streets, and her instincts lead her towards where she know she will find the slave quarters.

And wherever there was Depur, there was Amavikka, and wherever there was Amavikka, there were stories being told.

A grandfather, whether he has his own children or not, sits in the shadow of a half-wall, gnarled fingers idly patching a threadbare shirt, a small group of younglings working clumsily at similar mendings hunched in the shade alongside him, their attention only half on their work – for most of it belongs to the grandfather, whose thin, weathered voice warbles softly.

_“It happened once that as Ekkreth was going along, they passed by Depur’s forges and saw the people there hard at work, crafting and shaping many chains. Some were small and cleverly wrought, and others strained the backs of those who held them, their links as long as a grown human’s arm. There were many overseers there, laughing cruelly among themselves and prodding their slaves to work faster._

_So Ekkreth took the shape of a wealthy outlander and said to the chief overseer, “What are all these chains your slaves are building? Can you have so many beasts to hold?”_

_The overseer bowed his head slightly, because he took Ekkreth for a woman of means, and he said, “Lady, these chains are not for any beasts, unless those beasts be the slaves themselves, for they are a brutish lot, and given to violence. With these chains we will restrain them.”_

_Then Ekkreth gasped as though afraid and said, “If they are as violent as you say, how can you be sure that even these chains will hold them?”_

_“You needn’t fear, Lady,” said the overseer. “For these slaves would need the immense strength of the bantha to break these chains.”_

_“I see that you are prepared,” said Ekkreth. “So I will sleep soundly tonight.”_

_Then Ekkreth left the overseers and their chains and went out into the desert. They journeyed long and far by secret ways, until they came to the place of hidden water where Bantha was with all her herd. And when Bantha smelled an intruder, she rushed at Ekkreth and tried to trample them. But Ekkreth became a scurrier and leapt nimbly aside, then a kirik fly and flitted into the air, stinging at Bantha’s thick hide until she huffed and said, “I know you, Shape-Changer. Cease your stinging and tell me what you want.”_

_So Ekkreth took a bantha’s shape and said, “Grandmother, teach me the secret of your immense strength.”_

_“Tell me why I should,” said Bantha._

_Ekkreth told her about the many chains Depur had forced his slaves to make, and all that the overseer had said._

_Then Bantha said, “You might have told me this first, Trickster. I will gladly help you, for I hate Depur and all his chains. And this is my secret: a chain may bind one, but no chain can bind a whole herd together.”_

_And that night, when all the people were locked in the chains they had labored to make, Ekkreth came among them and said, “Listen, Children of the Mother, for I have learned the secret of Bantha’s immense strength.”_

_Then all the people listened, and they drew together and laid hands on the chains that bound the eldest Grandmother among them, and with the strength of many hands they tore the chain asunder. Then the Grandmother lent her hands to the effort, and another chain was broken, and another and another, until all the people were freed and they disappeared into the desert, following the way Ekkreth had shown them to the place of hidden water. And in the morning when Depur came, he found all his slaves gone.”_

He pauses the story, licking his thin lips, and a youngling no older than three lifts a jug and waddles it to him, and he drinks, and passes the jug along, until each youngling has also had a sip, and then the jug goes back to the little one, who guards it with all of a childs stubborn clinginess.

But the elder does not continue, having seen Shaak Ti’s shadow as she passed along the wall and through the gate.

“May I listen, grandfather?” Shaak Ti asks. The younglings all hunch and bow their heads over their work for the presence of a stranger, but their eyes all watch her, skittish and probing.

“Do we know you?” The elder inquires, the dry breeze tugging at what wisps of hair he has left.

“I am Shaak Ti, _Marrat_ to Shmi Skywalker.” Shaak Ti introduces herself, reminding herself to take care with the Amatakka tongue. “Though some have called me Amaleia.”

“She Who Carries the Dragon.” The grandfather murmurs, rheumy eyes studying her visage. “You may listen.” He permits, and the younglings make space for her in the shade of the wall. Shaak Ti offers them her smile, careful not to flash her teeth, and the littlest one decides, once she in on the ground, that her lap is the best place to guard her jug, and clambers over Shaak Ti’s knees without caution.

“May I help you, grandfather?” Shaak Ti asks, one palm laid open towards his mending. He smiles, but shakes his head.

“Where was I?” He asks his audience.

“Bantha’s strength, grandfather.” One of the younglings pipes up.

“You just _finished_ Bantha’s strength.” Another corrects.

He laughs softly, as the younglings jostle each other, and swallows, clearing his voice.

“ _One day, as Ekkreth was going along, they passed by the workshops of Depur’s enforcers, and saw something very strange. Many of the people were there, their backs bent over their work, crafting collars of metal and wires._

_Then Ekkreth took a shape like a merchant from the Core Worlds, well-fed and dressed head-to-toe in purple, and they came to the chief enforcer there and said, “What is it these chattel are laboring at so industriously?”_

_The enforcer sketched a bow, because he believed Ekkreth was very rich, and then he laughed. “They are making collars for themselves, and when the collars are done we will lock them around the necks of these ungrateful and rebellious slaves. For they learn slowly, and are forever trying to escape.”_

_“I see,” said Ekkreth, looking down their nose at the enforcer, in the way of rich outlanders who believe they understand many things. “But surely they could simply escape wearing the collars?”_

_The enforcer began to laugh, but he caught himself, remembering the great wealth of this outlander, and he said, “Oh no, sir. Because these collars contain detonators, and if any of these dull slaves is foolish enough to attempt escape, we will set them off, and all the others will know what comes to those who defy Depur.”_

_“How ingenious!” crowed Ekkreth in feigned delight. “But how can you be sure they will not find some way to disable the detonators, if they are as stubborn as you say?”_

_“You need have no fear of that!” said the enforcer. “For they would need all the cunning of the wild anooba to escape these collars.”_

_“Well, I see you have thought of everything,” said Ekkreth. And they complimented the enforcer profusely and then went away, making as though for the spaceport._

_And that evening the collars were completed, and they were locked about the neck of every slave, from the oldest grandmother to the youngest child._

_But Ekkreth went out into the desert, and they walked for three nights beneath the moons, until they came to the great cliffs where Anooba lives with her pack. And as Ekkreth approached they were set upon by a great many of Anooba’s grandchildren. But Ekkreth had so many shapes that they could not be caught by strength or tooth or claw. Then at last the eldest of the grandchildren called his siblings to hold, and he said, “I know you, Shape-Changer. What is it that you seek here?”_

_“Let me speak to your Grandmother, and you will know,” said Ekkreth._

_So Ekkreth was brought to Anooba, who eyed them long and shrewdly. “What evil has Depur done now?” she asked, for she knew Depur’s ways, and Ekkreth’s too._

_Ekkreth told her, and when the tale was told they said, “Grandmother, teach me the secret of your wild cunning.”_

_Then Anooba laughed. “You have a store of cunning of your own, I think, Sky-walker,” she said. “But for the sake of Ar-Amu’s children I will teach you.”_

_And she allowed Ekkreth to place a fetter around her neck, and so proved true the saying that Anooba is the most daring of all those who walk in the wastes, and mightiest of all but one._

_Then she called all her family to her, and they were howling in rage because their Grandmother had been bound. But Anooba called the youngest of all her grandchildren, and she twisted about, loosening the bond until the child’s claws could slip into the mechanism. It was a complicated thing, but Anooba’s cunning was so great that she could feel all the secret movements within the collar, and under her direction the child prevailed, and the collar fell broken but unburnt to the sand._

_Then Ekkreth thanked Anooba for sharing this wisdom, and they returned immediately to the people, bound in their collars and singing songs of mourning to the stars._

_“Listen, children,” said Ekkreth, “for Ar-Amu has heard your sorrow, and I have learned the secret of Anooba’s wild cunning.”_

_Then Ekkreth placed a collar around their own neck, and a great cry of despair went up from all the people, but Ekkreth only laughed. “No fetter can hold the Sky-walker forever,” they said. And so it was. They slipped the bond and it fell away, broken and unburnt. Then, with Ekkreth’s aid, all the people did the same, and by the light of the moons they slipped away into the night, and when Depur’s enforcers came in the morning they found all his slaves gone_.”

Again the grandfather pauses, and again the water jug is passed around, Shaak Ti taking her own sip and earning a few shy smiles from the younglings. One of them has given up their mending entirely, and is scrawling in the sand with a slip of rusted metal, drawing out the characters grandfather spoke of before brushing them away.

“ _It happened once that as Ekkreth was going along they came across many of Depur’s overseers hard at work in the smithy, but no slaves were there working with them. And Ekkreth thought this very strange indeed, for it is seldom heard of that enforcers will do any work themselves._

_So Ekkreth took a shape like a woman of the Core Worlds, wealthy and well-dressed, a perpetual sneer on her face. Then they came and stood just outside the smithy and called out, “Enforcers of Depur, what is it you are laboring at here, and why do you dirty your own hands when there are countless filthy slaves to work for you?”_

_Then the chief enforcer came out and bowed before Ekkreth, because he thought them a rich and important Core Worlder, and he said, “Lady, it is true that Depur has many slaves to do his works, but they are a cunning and rebellious lot, and they constantly endeavor to escape. So we are building a device which will put a stop to that. And Depur does not wish his slaves to have any role in its creation.”_

_“Perhaps that is wise,” said Ekkreth, looking down their nose at the enforcer. “But what is this device you speak of, and how can you be certain it will work?”_

_Then the chief enforcer was eager to demonstrate his cleverness to this outlander, so he ran back within the smithy and emerged a moment later with a tiny chip, only a few centimeters wide and thinner than a fingernail._

_“This is a slave implant, Lady,” he said. “It will go beneath the skin of every slave. When it is completed, it will function as a tracking chip, so that no slave can run beyond the reach of Depur’s knowledge. And it contains a detonator, so that any who try to escape will find that there is no life outside of Depur’s will, and if they survive it will be all the worse for them.”_

_Then for the first time in all their years Ekkreth was afraid, for how can anyone, no matter how clever, outrun a bomb inside of them?_

_Yet no sign of their thoughts showed on Ekkreth’s face. Instead they raised one disdainful brow and said, “It certainly seems an ingenious design. But if these slaves are as cunning and rebellious as you say, how can you be sure they will not escape even from their own skin?”_

_But the chief enforcer only laughed. “You need have no fear about that, Lady!” he said. “For we shall plant these devices beneath the skin of Depur’s slaves in such a way that they will not know where we have placed them. And as for the detonation, though this chip seems a small thing, only the mighty and terrible dragon of the wastes could survive it unscathed!”_

_“I am glad to hear it,” said Ekkreth with a haughty sniff. And then bidding farewell to the enforcer, they set off as though for the spaceport._

_But soon Ekkreth turned their face toward the open desert, and taking the shape of a bird they set off flying. Three days and three nights they flew, out into the deep wastes._

_On that first night, as Ekkreth traveled, Depur’s enforcers completed their work, and on the second day and into that night, one by one, they took each of the people, put them to sleep, and in secret planted the chips beneath their skin._

_But Ekkreth came on the third night to the place where Leia, their mighty daughter, lived, and saw her great wings spread like a shadow of death across the immensity of the sky._

_The great dragon of the wastes has eyes far sharper than any kokaru, and she saw Ekkreth coming from afar._

_Down swept Leia with a roar of terrible wind, and she came to rest on a high pillar of rock, with Ekkreth beside her._

_“Parent,” said Leia, “what evil has Depur worked this time? For you are weary with a long flight, and I know you well, and the meaning of your haste.”_

_Then Ekkreth told their wise daughter all that the enforcer had told them, about the implant and its detonator, and what the enforcer had said about the mighty dragon of the wastes._

_And Leia was silent as her parent spoke, but when they ceased she raised her great horned head to the stars and let out a long, shrill, terrible cry. The sound of it echoed in the rocks and canyons and raced along the seven winds and came even to the walled palace of Depur, and all who heard it trembled._

_“It is well that Depur’s enforcers acknowledge me,” said the Mighty One, “for mighty I am, and the chain has not been forged that can hold me. No, not even this device that Depur has made. Will he set a fire beneath the skin of a dragon? Let him try! By his own flames will his bones be devoured!”_

_Then hope was born anew in Ekkreth’s heart, because they saw that Leia was fearless still. But they were still troubled, and so they said, “What then shall I tell the people? For even I, shape-changer though I am, do not know how they may escape from their own skin.”_

_“Do you not?” asked Leia. “Then I will show you.” And she began to claw with great force at a patch of her own hide above her heart, until dark blood flowed and at last she plucked out a new scale. This she cleaned with her tongue until it gleamed white in the light of the three moons. And then she offered it to Ekkreth._

_“Give this to the people,” said Leia. “Tell them it is given with blood and with water, a pledge in your sight before Ar-Amu. They are my siblings and I am their Elder Sister. My blood flows in their veins. The chain that can bind me has never yet been made, and never shall be. They have the burrowing strength of Womp Rat and the stinging persistence of Kirik Fly. They have the great strength of Bantha and the wild cunning of Anooba. And they have the might and fearless heart of Krayt Dragon. And more than all these, they have the cleverness and the trickery and the many shapes of Ekkreth. By all these means and more will they free themselves, and there is nothing Depur can ever do to hold them.”_

_Then Ekkreth thanked their mighty daughter and flew away with the precious scale clasped in their mouth. Three days and three nights they flew, out of the deep desert and into the city of Depur, and on the third night Ekkreth offered the scale and the words of Leia the Mighty One to a Grandmother of the People who was as wise and as secret as the Night_.” Grandfather says.

“And this knowledge we have still, children, passed down to us from our Grandparents as now we pass it to you. The Great Dragon is our Elder Sister and we are Ar-Amu’s children. The chain has not been made which can never be broken.” He tells them firmly, rubbing at his own side, where the aches of age have likely revealed his detonator to be.

“And it never shall be.”

“We’ll remember.” The younglings chorus, and Shaak Ti with them.

~*~

There are tunnels and temples and entire catacombs in the trees, and not one of them was cut or carved. They were grown that way. The small party of Jedi keep to the open paths and bridges that make up the streets, and Ben marvels.

Arches of stone wreathed in flowering vines that sing and glow faintly as they pass beneath them, serving no doubt as lamps in real darkness. Tapestries for doorways of such fine fiber and detail and scope they must have taken a lifetime to weave, adorning some entrances only as high as Yaddle was tall, and some….some of the thresholds stood so far above their heads that the entire Temple could fit in its silhouette. Those tapestries did not have patterns, like the others, but vast, pictographic scenes – histories, memories, wisdoms and teachings, perhaps. Ben cannot fathom the language, though the images are…resplendent in their details.

Narrow brides tied tree to tree, fading into the mists, and engineless lifts comprised of weights and rigging, all carved and artistically wrought, were simply if not for the impressive scale in which they operated.

“I suppose this is what a people can do, when they have millennia to do it.” Obi-Wan whispers in awe, trudging along beside him, irritatingly less bothered by the damp than his master.

They eventually settle, at Yaddle’s direction, in an elevated gazebo, with a lush carpet of soft moss. Ben gratefully sinks down, almost immediately pulling off his boots to dump the water from them. He is sweating and he is damp and he is parched all at the same time. Tsui flops full-body face-first into the moss with a burbling groan, and Obi-Wan carefully sits down cross-legged, bouncing a little on the spongey surface.

“Who are we waiting for, Master Yaddle?” He inquires politely, while Ben imitates Tsui and flops back on the moss, staring up at the dilcate architecture of the roof above them, all twining branches and dried reeds with more moss and flowers growing amidst the structure, unchecked. Everything hums with the Force, not like the planet itself does, but with intent, with purpose. Everything here, he realizes, was imbued, like the swords of the Jedi of Old, before the era of lightsabers.

“Whomever comes, waiting for, we are.” She replies.

“Shouldn’t we speak to someone…specific?” Obi-Wan asks, confused, and Tsui sits up, nodding in agreement with that statement.

“Egalitarian, my people are.” Yaddle explains. “No leaders, have we, save whomever, for the situation at hand, is best suited.”

“But then…how do we go about our Search?” Obi-Wan persists, uncertain. “Don’t we need permission to find a youngling?”

“Choose, we will not.” Yaddle says firmly. “Choose, the Force will, and find us, will what we seek.”

“So we’re just going to….wait here.” Obi-Wan reiterates.

Yaddle offers him a short look, and Obi-Wan sighs, flopping backwards and accidentally dropping his head down on his masters elbow, which goes immediately numb. Ben huffs, and his padawan emits a soft wave of apology, but doesn’t move, save to wiggle into a more comfortable position.

“Dignified, you are not.” Yaddle scolds, eyes closed as she settles in to meditate.

“But comfy.” Ben retorts.

They wait.

“Two-hundred and three-thousand, six-hundred and fifty-four.” Ben reports a few minutes later.

“What?” Obi-Wan and Tsui echo.

“The population of my people, that is.” Yaddle murmurs.

“That’s _it_?”

“One world, we have. Long lived, we are. More of us, need there be?” Yaddle inquires. “A balance, we hold.”

“I suppose.” Obi-Wan says.

They wait.

Eventually, they are joined by curious, slow-ambling others, some with white hair, some with blue, some with brown, some with olive green. Their clothes are as finely detailed and richly patterned as their tapestries, though some colors appear almost nonexistent – red and pink, brighter purples, that Ben can tell.

They are observed, a few bow to Yaddle, but most take a mild interest and then move on, curiosity satisfied and the desire to interact further utterly absent.

An insular people.

“Passed, has Yoda?” Someone inquires, their words almost utterly unintelligible, so thick was their accent. “Venerable, he was.”

“Venerable, he is.” Yaddle says, tipping her head in respect to a silver-haired elder. “Live, he does, though old beyond expectation, he is.”

Ben resists the urge to snort.

“Then early, you are.” The elder replies, frowning deeply.

“Enter the Nebula, this youngling had to.” Yaddle gestures to Obi-Wan, who had sat up when approached, and goes wide-eyed for the attention. “Join him, I did, as beyond our own time, we already are. Harm, is there, in letting Master Yoda meet his successor? Few left, are his years.”

“Harm, I see not.” The elder nods agreeably. “But many, you are.” They say, casting a look over the four of them. “Unusual, that is.”

Yaddle peers back at the elder, looks down, and brings herself to stand before him serenely. “Yes.” She replies simply, and Ben can almost glimpse the wealth of meaning she packs behind it, but that part is not for him – or for their padawans. It is for the elder and the elder alone. They switch into a native language quick and clipped in pace; short, low sounds that have the same pattern as their accented Basic, but where their Basic is often slow spoken, their own language is anything but.

Tsui and Obi-Wan share looks of confusion mixed with the keen interest of being allowed to observe something no one else in the Temple ever will.

Yaddle’s conversation ends abruptly, she and the elder going abruptly silent and then bowing with calm dignity, the elder ambling away to settle down himself, and rest.

“Master?” Tsui prompts.

“Rare, is this opportunity.” Yaddle states. “Meet with the Many, I must. Tell them of the things I have seen, I shall. Offer me their wisdom, they do. Explore, you may, but mind Master Naasade, you must. Watching, my people will be. When need them, you do, guide you, they will.”

Ben is slightly taken aback by the strange turn of events, and Yaddle meets his gaze evenly, the turn of her mouth grave. Ben sends a questioning thought, and her response is fond but dismissive, and beneath it is the depths of her age and experience, compared to the shallow, if turbulent, pool of his own.

Ben feels his lips peel back for a quiet laugh, and leaves her be. “Yes, Master.” He assents, bowing his head.

“Open to the Force, be.” Yaddle says. “On Search, you still are.”

“Wait – you’re not leaving that to _me_.” Ben says sharply. “Yaddle, these are _your_ people.”

“Yet, _our_ people, the Jedi are.” Yaddle’s ears lift pointedly. “Find a fellow Jedi, beyond you, that cannot be.”

“I am fairly certain that is _not_ how this is supposed to work.” Ben replies grumpily, pushing his padawan over for snickering at his indignation.

“Trust, I have.” Yaddle smiles, turning away to clasp a clawed hand on her padawans shoulder, and then amble off without a care or concern. “Disappoint, you will not.”

“ _Yaddle_!” Ben hisses, and Tsui laughs brightly, tickled at his master’s mischeviousness.

“Oh, come on, Master, it’s not that bad.” Obi-Wan teases, grin wide. The mark on his cheek cuts through the dimple there, twisting the one side of his happy expression. “Why are you so worried?”

“Oh, Obi-Wan.” Ben sighs dryly, well aware of the wretched irony. “Deciding someone’s fate has never been something I’ve ever been comfortable with.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: I have borrowed Ekkreth stories directly from Fialleril for this chapter. The italisized segments are pulled from 'The Slave Who Makes Free' in the 'Double Agent Vader' series.


	12. Chapter 12

Despite Yaddle’s proclamation that they were free to explore, the increased gravity and humid, dense atmosphere had taken a toll, so they had elected to nap first instead.

Obi-Wan wakes up with only a vague understanding of a dream – someone trying to hand him something he didn’t want to take – and he doesn’t know if the dream was his or his masters.

What he does know is that he has somehow maneuvered himself into using his master’s stomach as a pillow, Master Ben’s hand resting between Obi-Wan’s shoulder blades.

“If you’re awake, I would consider it a kindness if you would move.” His master murmurs lightly, tapping his fingers between Obi-Wan’s shoulder blades.

“Am I hurting you?” Obi-Wan asks, startled into pushing himself up. His master’s hand slides away.

“No.” His master assures him, with a slightly exasperated smile. “I’ve well healed up from all that, Obi-Wan. You don’t have to treat me like I’m fragile. It’s just that as much of a comfort as I find you, you radiate heat, and I am already _sweltering_.” He complains.

“Oh.” Obi-Wan mutters grumpily. His master snorts lightly and sits up, brushing bits of moss from his tunics and hair, his robe bunched up for a pillow where his head had been. The both of them glance over to check on Tsui in tandem, and find the youngest member of their party curled up in a circle of moss, snoring lightly.

“Wake him?” Master Ben questions.

“Not yet.” Obi-Wan whispers, rifling his pockets for his comm-link. He scans his friend, uploading a holophoto, and then tucks it back in his pocket. “Okay.” He nods, and scoots over to prod Tsui awake.

He is a surprisingly heavy sleeper.

Obi-Wan shakes his shoulder, wiggles a foot, attempts to physically pull him upright and is rewarded with an unhappy grumble as the younger boy finally peels open his eyes.

“Can you _not_?” Tsui protests, swatting at him.

“Needs must, I’m afraid.” Obi-Wan replies gamely. Tsui gives him a bleary, narrow-eyed look and sighs deeply before focusing on actually waking up. Master Ben fetches his boots, shaking more excess moisture out of them with a forlorn look on his face. Something about the way his master looks seems a little…off, but Obi-Wan can’t quite place it, wondering if perhaps it just isn’t due to the light of a different sun. He glances up, at the canopy of thick, lush vegetation and the ever-present fog, and wonders if the residents here ever actually _see_ their sun.

Slightly dicoordinated, they eventually get themselves moving, chewing on nutribars to settle their hunger, and risk taking one of the bridges, whose far side disappears into the mists.

“If this entire city didn’t practically sing of contentment and home-place, I would find this unnervingly creepy.” Obi-Wan declares, once they’ve crossed enough of the tightly woven, v-shaped bridge-line to have both ends disappear on them.

A flock of birds whistle and twirl out of the mists, swooping under the bridge below them, and then vanish again.

“You mean to say you don’t _like_ being suspended in the midst of a vast unknown, dangling on a thread?” Master Ben says dryly. “How odd.”

Tsui pauses and offers Obi-Wan a sympathetic look for his master’s brand of humor, and Obi-Wan rolls his eyes in consensus.

They reach a tree trunk that could easily fit a tower inside it, curling in on itself in an asymmetric winding that formed a more or less spiral stair, leading both up and down.

“Oh, hello there.” Master Ben says, with a smile in his voice, looking at the organic construction with a sense of ease. “Up or down, padawans?” Master Ben asks.

Obi-Wan glances at Tsui, and Tui glances at Obi-Wan. They both point down.

Obi-Wan regrets it immediately, for the pleased smirk his master then offers them.

“Well then, I’ll see you at the bottom.” He declares, swings himself over the guide-line, and drops into the mist.

“Uh…”Tsui lurches onto his tip-toes at the guide-line, staring down where Master Ben disappeared to with very alarmed green eyes.

Obi-Wan just sighs. “Do you want to take the stairs?” He asks.

Tsui looks up at him, and is quiet for a moment, considering. A look of uncertainty clouds his face. “I don’t know if can catch myself when I can’t see what’s beneath me.” He admits quietly.

“If you trust me,” Obi-Wan says, “I’ll catch you.”

Tsui blinks. “Of course I trust you.” He says, and Obi-Wan glances away, feeling his ears redden a little at how very somberly sincere Tsui was in that moment.

Taking a few energizing breathes to psych themselves up, they both jump.

Obi-Wan closes his eyes as he falls, blind with the fog anyways, and expands his senses. It’s extremely disorienting at first, and he almost panics. It’s not the fall, but the exposure of his mind with the shields down that puts everything out of sorts, amplifying the intensity until he almost can’t process what he’s sensing.

 _Tsui’s trusting me_. Obi-Wan reminds himself, and holds his breath, forcing calm, and reaches for the ground, for the bright call that was his master’s presence, and trusts himself.

And the fact that his master won’t let him die.

That’s helpful.

But Obi-Wan catches them both, slowly at first and then a bit harshly when he realizes he miscalculated due to their being water beneath him, and not solid ground.

Tsui squeaks as they _stop_ , his face only inches from reflective green water.

“Cutting it close, padawan.” Master Ben calls, and Obi-Wan glowers at him as he lifts himself and Tsui up, and gives them both a flinging push to the bank his master is standing on.

“Well done.” His master adds, once they are both neatly landed beside him. Obi-Wan feels warmed by the praise, and the amused, satisfied pride tickling down the bond between them, and nods shyly.

“I have to learn how to levitate like that!” Tsui says excitedly, practically brimming with energy after the dive. “That was amazing.” He, of course, had been free of Obi-Wan’s fears during the fall, utterly trusting his friend with his life. Obi-Wan is a little awed by his friends faith.

He also, however, shares a look with his master, the both of them wondering if they haven’t just introduced Yaddle’s padawan to the vice of thrill-seeking.

The massive roots of the great tree span out around them, and there is actual solid ground beneath them, meeting up with the water in a long bank. The fog is less dense here at the surface, and they can see a well-worn path following the river. Ribbons are tied to hanging vines by the hundreds, as fine as silk and painted with the language of Yaddle’s people. Some of them are worn and brittle and faded, and other could have been made just that morning, gleaming smoothly in the soft light.

“Prayer ribbons?” Tsui asks, peering at them carefully, but respectfully not touching them.

“I don’t know.” Master Ben says, studying the ribbons himself. Obi-Wan can tell they are imbued with the Force, but more than that he can’t without touching them, and that feels…wrong. “They could be. Or markers for the deceased. Or something else entirely.”

There is something sacred about the river bank they’re standing on, and the farther they walk, the more they can feel it. It hums up from the ground, from the echo of generation of footsteps before them. Strange sort of totems dot the shore, small, tapered towers of dense, hardened mud, covered in painted handprints of yellow, orange, and white, layer over layer over layer, potentially thousands on each small totem, each packed with _hope-promise-waiting_. Some are old and cracking, some are fresh, and some remain only as shattered fragments sinking back into the softer mud beneath. Every so often, one of the Green Folk – Obi-Wan may not know what they call themselves, if they call themselves anything, but he has to call them _something_ – will be seen sitting in amidst the totems, orange hems on their loose-fit clothing, and a spear with a wicked bladed tip that glowed faintly with the Force resting in their grasp. Guardians of some sort, that the Jedi quietly and collectively decided not to disturb.

There were others, also, walking the banks as they were, occasionally laying their hands over the totems like a well-wish. The water rippled softly, and occasionally Obi-Wan could see something moving beneath the murky surface and the skittering of ever-present insects.

Then they hear the humming.

There is a gathering around one of the totems ahead, sitting in a crowded circle, heads bowed and hands clasping each others. It isn’t quite music, the humming, low and crooning, but there is something about it that tugs in the center of Obi-Wan chest, calling him forward. His master lays a hand on his shoulder, stopping him from disturbing the ceremony ahead of them by getting too close. Obi-Wan pauses, swallowing, and they observe.

There is a sort of skittering-rattling sound, beneath the humming, like something trapped, and it makes Obi-Wan feel uneasy. He looks around, and glances at the water, where something dark-skinned and milky-eyed peers back at him before disappearing in a quick flash. Obi-Wan blinks, uncertain he actually just saw what he just saw, and steps closer to the water, his boots slipping a little in the softer mud.

It’s shallower here, and in the murky green he can make out bulbous round bodies, with fat, wiggling tails and stumpy little limbs, and those big milky eyes, over wide mouths. In a mass they have no more presence than _life-energy-hunger-instinct_ that all creatures have, but the longer Obi-Wan looks at them, swimming in the shallows, some of them have…more.

The stirrings of sentience, just a flicker of an almost-presence in the Force.

One of them pops out of the water, scurrying in the mud, and Obi-Wan jerks back in surprise. Equally surprised, it stops abruptly, still as cold stone, save the rapid inhale-exhale of excited breath. Milky-blind eyes close slowly, and Obi-Wan tilts his head a little, because that seems…familiar, and then, just as quickly as it scrambled up the bank, it digs into the mud and scurries back down, disappearing into the water and the swarm of its fellows with a wet _plop_!

“Obi-Wan!” Tsui hisses a calling, and Obi-Wan turns back and rejoins them. The humming of the crowd around the totem quiets, and the expectation in the air rises like a physical force, strong enough that Obi-Wan can feel all the fine hairs on his arms and neck rise with it.

The skittering-rattling sound is louder in the hush.

And then the hardened mud of the painted totem crumbles and cracks in one small spot, and a stubby-clawed tiny green hand pokes out.

“Oh!” Tsui lets out his breath with an awed rush of air, and several members of the gathering get up and help the new youngling break down the totem and free itself. It tumbles out uncoordinatedly with a needy burbling-growl before quite quickly learning to crawl, and then there is a fuss of trying to catch the speedy little youngling as it darts, little claws catching on clothing and feet until one of the Green Folk finally manages to scoop it up.

Joy sparkles over the group, delight and relief singing through the Force. The Jedi grin at each other, caught up in it, and the youngling is passed around from arm to arm, each Green Folk greeting it with a gentle hand laid on its tufty brown hair and a touch of the Force before passing it along again, welcoming new life to the tribe.


	13. Chapter 13

Jira listens to the tales she has to tell, and the fears and dreads, and the joys and hopes as the afternoon wears on towards first sunset, the light shifting towards red. They are occasionally interrupted by customers or gossiping fellow vendors or the odd begging child that never leaves Jira’s stall without _something_.

And then she is quiet, a thoughtful quiet, and Shmi waits, helping the older woman peel pallies and mind the cooling unit, tweaking a few loose wires here and there, for which Jira is grateful.

“There is a story you should hear.” Jira says after a time. “That we do not often tell.”

“I will listen, Amu Jira.” Shmi promises quietly.

The older woman looks at her, green eyes a shocking paleness in a sun-browned face, strands of silver hair teased in a hot breeze. “Have you ever been told the story of how Ekkreth became Ekkreth?” Jira asks her.

Shmi frowns, not having known that there was such a story. Ekkreth was Ekkreth, always and ever. Like Ar-Amu, like the deep desert. Jira shakes her head. “It is an old story, and less favored. Too full of fancy, some say.”

“I will listen.” Shmi repeats herself, and Jira nods. She eyes the market, quieting down, and settles back on the bench beside Shmi. Shmi pauses her peeling knife to lick the juice off her hand before it runs down and is lost to the sand. Jira smiles fondly, remembering her as a girl.

She takes a deep breath, sighing a little for it, and begins.

“In a desert long ago, there was a red bird. The red bird flew high and far and fast, between the dunes and the sun, but even one so swift and steadfast as they needed rest, and so the red bird found the sparkling line of a river, and flew down to drink.

But the water, instead of being clean and cool, was instead salty and hot. Curious and alarmed, red bird gathered themselves and few up again, and followed the river to its source, and found a woman weeping there where the desert met the darkness, in a shining shawl of white.

“Ar-Amu, Ar-Amu,” the little red bird sang. “Why do you cry so? Your tears have tainted the waters with salt, and none can drink from it.”

“I cry for my children.” She weeps. “For they have gone away from me, and forgotten who they are.”

“Then I shall find them for you, Ar-Amu.” The red bird promises, and flies once more away. They fly out of the stars and over the dunes, and at last they come to a new place, which Ar-Amu’s children have made for themselves.

Great palaces rise from the sand, and Ar-Amu’s water does not flow freely here. The red bird flies over the towers, and the guarded wells, and looks over Ar-Amu’s children, for vast and many were they, and to their shock, red bird sees that most of her children are in chains, and the powerful few who are left deprive them to keep them that way.

‘Ek-kree-tat-tat’ red bird sings, fluttering down to perch on a wall. ‘Ek-kree-tat-tat’

They sing and sing until one heeds them, weighed heavy with chains. “Red bird, why do you sing so?” They call out.

“I sing so that someone may sing back to me.” Red bird says. “What has become of Ar-Amu’s children?” They ask.

“I do not know who Ar-Amu’s children are.” Says the child. “I am Slave, and that is Depur.”

“ _All_ are Ar-Amu’s children.” Red bird says, and flies away to tell Ar-Amu of what they have found.

Ar-Amu’s grief doubles, for now she grieves that her children have forgotten who they are, and that her children have done each other harm.

“That is not who they are meant to be!” She cries. “Please, red bird, tell them this for me.”

And so red bird gathers themselves once more, and flies back again.

‘Ek-kree-tat-tat!’ Red bird sings. ‘Ek-kree-tat-tat!’

They fly down to Depur, and Depur is made very angry, and strikes at the red bird, who takes back to the sky in fear of their safety. ‘Ek-kree-tat-tat! Ek-kree-tat-tat!’ They sing, and fly once more down to the ground, very weary.

“Red bird, Red bird, why do you sing so?” Slave asks, and the child is no longer a child, but a sun-beaten teen.

“I sing so that someone may sing back to me.” The red bird says. “ _You_ are Ar-Amu’s child, and this is not who you were meant to be.”

“I am a slave, red bird.” The child-who-is-now-a-teen says. “This is all that I know.”

The red bird returns to Ar-Amu, to tell her what they have been told.

“Oh, red bird,” Ar-Amu weeps, her light made dim. “this cannot be! Please, red bird, help my children find their way back to me.”

“This I will do, Ar-Amu.” The red bird promises, and gathers up all the strength left within themself, to return to the place Ar-Amu’s children have made.

‘Ek-kree-tat-tat!’ the red bird sings. ‘Ek-kree-tat-tat!’

There is a crowd, gathered in a square, and red bird circles, winding down.

‘Ek-kree-tat-tat!’ they sing, and land on a post, where the child-who-became-a-teen-who-is-now-grown is bound, fallen on their knees in the blistering light of the suns.

“Oh, red bird, red bird, why do you come back?” They cry. “If I had wings, I would fly away and away.”

“I come back for you. What has become of you, child of Ar-Amu?” The red bird cries, seeing what has been done to them, whipped to the bone through skin.

“Depur has done this to me, red bird.” They say. “For I have angered them, and they have decided I will anger them no more. I am to die.”

“Oh, child of Ar-Amu, child of Ar-Amu!” The red bird cries.

“I am not!” They deny. “I am Slave. I am no one.”

“ _I_ am no one. I am only a red bird. _You_ are not.”

“Then what am I, red bird? What is a child of Ar-Amu?”

Red bird hops down from the post, wings brushing the sand, pitifully small even before this bowed and broken body.

“You are a person.” The red bird declares. “And your name is Ekkreth, and this I name you for I have sung to you and you alone have sung back to me.”

“Ekkreth.” They repeat. “Yes, I am Ekkreth, and at least in death will I be free.”

“I will be with you.” Red bird says, hopping closer to the child-who-became-a-teen-who-is-now-grown’s bended knee.

“No, red bird. Fly, fly away and away.” Ekkreth pleads.

“I cannot.” Red bird says. “For I have gathered all my strength and now it is spent. All that is left is that I fulfill my promise.”

“What promise, red bird?”

“That I help Ar-Amu’s children find their way back to her.” Red bird says.

“But how can we do that, red bird?” Ekkreth asks.

“I will give you my wings.” The red bird declares. “And you will walk the path I took across the sky with my feathers as your guide.”

“But red bird, you will die!” Ekkreth declares.

“Yes, I will die. But I am no one.” Red bird says. “You are Ekkreth, and you must fly.”

So the red bird gave up their wings, and became a slave, and the slave became Ekkreth – shape-changer, sky-walker - and flew across the sands and over the dune and into the stars, back to Ar-Amu.

She cried out in joy, and the waters cleared of salt, and once more succored all in the places beyond that which Depur had built.

“Oh, but you have come back to me!”

“I have, but I am and am not your child.” Ekkreth tells her, grasping her hands in theirs.

“That I see.” She smiles, illuminating the night sky with her radiance. “You have become Ekkreth.”

“I have.” Ekkreth declares. “And as I have returned to you so I shall return to all the places Depur has built, for all of those Depur has made Slave, who have forgotten who they are. This I promise; they are my siblings, and I shall set them free.”

Shmi feels a chill spread over her skin, a whisper in the Force that teases at her ears and at her heart and prickles with promise. It makes Shmi cautious.

“And so it was that one who did not know who they were became the slave who makes free.” Jira tells her, grasping Shmi’s hand in her own wizened one, her grip still strong despite her age. “Will you remember that?”

“I will remember it.” Shmi swears, touching her free hand to her heart, and then her lips, and then clasps it over Jira’s fingers, twined with her own.

_I will remember it._

~*~

In the cool dark of early morning, the city in the fog glows with light born of the force. Stone arches mark the streets, small crystal lamps shine like stars from the bridges and stairs, and even some well-worked over threads are illuminated in the great tapestries that shelter the grand hollows.

Yaddle had thought her memories from youth had grown dream-like with time, but the truth was much simpler than that. Compared to all the other worlds she had ever been, her homeworld, in comparison, embodied a life others only understood in dreams and abstract concepts.

The mists are less dense at night, and at the ground, the air is almost entirely clear, save over the pools and waterways. Still, it is the Force that guides her to the wayward padawan – not her own.

Her own she had found and left sleeping in a hammock wedged into the crook of Master Naasade’s arm, worn out by their explorations and the new-life celebration they had followed in the wake of.

But Obi-Wan Kenobi had been more elusive, and so she sought him out, not as wearied by the atmosphere and gravity as the rest of her companions, though the meeting with the Many had been its own exertion.

She finds him on the riverbank, along the Walk of Becoming, though he is a respectful distance away from the nearest chrysalis and their spear-weilding guardians. The life-wish ribbons all whisper with a touch of those who had made them, and Yaddle approaches the boy at a slow amble. His focus is a clear guideline in the Force, but in a place of such strength and varied influences, it was best not to startle anyone or anything.

He has found or was given a woven grass mat, and sits as close to the water as is safe to do so without slipping in, his satchel of lightsaber parts with him, his Adegans balanced on each knee. Presumably, he had sought to work on his weapon, but she finds him instead to be contemplating the water, and the darting shapes within.

Yaddle can feel the mud cloy against her toes, but she does not sink, and she does not mind. There is little to be bothered over about mud.

“Humble beginnings, my people have.” Yaddle says quietly, joining him.

He glances over at her, his eyes a wet gleam in the near-dark. “Hello there, Master Yaddle.” He says respectfully.

She bows her head to return the greeting, and settles herself next to him. “Questions, you have?”

“Yes.” He replies honestly, looking back to the water. “Why….there are so many, in the water.” He says. “But not that many which feel like….like they could be a person.”

“Hm.” Yaddle hums thoughtfully. “Yes. Survive the waters, some will, and some will not. Of those that will, sentience, guaranteed, is not. If people, they will become, leave the waters, they will. If rise, they do not, grow into dark-water hunters, they do. Dangerous, they are.”

She can sense his compassion rise, like the glow of dawn, and sorrow, and the faintest thread of alarm for such a concept as the stark division of existence her people faced. Yaddle looks to the water herself, letting him mull over his thoughts. “Of those that survive the waters, survive the quickening, and the transformation, not all do. Spawned, are many. Live, do but a few.” She adds.

“Why would your people then give any up? Even one?” Obi-Wan asks. “At the celebration we saw, when the youngling…um…hatched? There was such joy and _connection_ , when they brought it into the world, into their tribe.”

“Raised by the tribe, our younglings are. All care for them, all love them, all raise them.” Yaddle nods. “Yes. But decide their fate, the tribe cannot. Our choice alone, that is.” She speaks from memory, from her own experience.

“Oh.” Obi-Wan replies softly, something wistful in his voice. He had been an infant still when his fate was decided for him, and Yaddle had shaken her head then and shakes her head now. The Jedi were not opposed to raising those so young, but there was something always lost in those who had no memories but inside the Temple walls. A yearning fiercer and deeper for the unknown compared to those who knew, and yearned for what was familiar to their knowledge.

“How old will they be, then?” Obi-Wan asks. “If they ought to be old enough to choose for themselves?”

“Long lived, our my people. Take a long time to grow, we do. Eighty standard years after our hatching, it takes, to mature. Thirty years, was I, when the Jedi came, and I chose to go with them.”

Obi-Wan’s nose wrinkles. “You were almost as old as my master is now, and you were still just a youngling?”

“Hm.” Yaddle hums amusedly. “Yes. Ten years, spent in the crèche, to learn how others learned and grew. Fifteen years, spend as a padawan, to learn how to _slow down_ , did I. “ Her ears droop, humor fading. “Hasty, were all my crèchemates. Short, were their lives. Knighted before me, all were. Lost before me, all were. Different lessons, did I have to learn, than all those who pass me by.”

His sympathy reaches out and wraps around her, a gentle shroud in the Force that still sang out far beyond the pair of them. He offers her a hand, and Yaddle gently clasps her claws around his larger fingers. “Kind, you are, but so grievous, it is not. With the Force, are those who have come and gone. Join them, one day, we shall, and be lucky.”

“That doesn’t mean it can’t still make you sad, Master Yaddle.” Obi-Wan says, looking at her somberly.

She peers back at him, and he is not the boy she knew a year ago, and not the boy she thought he would have been. Master Naasade was a troubled soul with an awe-inspiring discipline and a vast understanding of the Force. He felt deeply and acted deliberately and never stopped for fear of the silence that stillness might bring.

Obi-Wan Kenobi had been an emotional boy, talented but uncertain, and in the balance between his heart and his doubt she could see where the path might have lead from that boy to that man.

But no longer. Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi was empathetic but cautious, headstrong but just. Still prone to letting his emotions guide him, but they did not _rule_ him. Others muttered of his temper and his attachment, still seeing the boy he had been beneath such afflictions and not seeing the light reflected in his gaze when he looked back at them. He was learning his master’s calculative logic, and they were mistaking determination for stubbornness.

When he had stood before her council, he did not defy them because he was angry. He was angry because he had been put into a decision where defying them was the most suitable solution he could come up with. What they saw as fear and attachment when they attempted to separate him from his masters influence was not, she believes, an inability to let go so much as it was an emotionally-supported but reasonably thought-out _decision_ not to. And if he spurned the council, she feared that that was not youthful spite, but a more thought-over disappointment in their assessment and in their execution of their authority than they wanted to admit.

After all, he had walked away to train with the healers, and changed his courses to suit those interests. He had walked away more than once to train in the Mandalorian way, even without permission or the grace of by-your-leave notification. He acted of his own volition and interest in making friends and adversaries within the political sphere as well. His independence, she did not find lacking. He chose his master, over and over, because _this_ was the man he wanted to learn from.

He was less doubtful and conflicted than he used to be or possibly would have been, for Naasade’s guidance, and the young man before her would one day be something remarkably _better_ for it, she thinks.

He certainly had the presence within him now to make her take pause, and he was still young, this was still only just a part of his becoming.

“Sad, perhaps it makes me. But make new friends, can I. Watch them, too, grow and live. Meet you, was I allowed to, by my many years.” His face heats, and Yaddle lets him feel her amusement at the sudden shyness. More confident he may be, but the boy retained humility if not such doubts. “Good, that is.”


	14. Chapter 14

There are no fools among the Amavikka, and traitors are only ever traitors once. Generation by generation, passing millennia by millennia, they may make what there is to make of their lives in secret, but they do it well enough that there are moments when they can set aside the weight of the oppression that squanders their lives and simply _be_.

It is forbidden for many slaves to gather together, even in the confines of the slave quarter, but the Amavikka know much that Depur never will.

At evening curfew, there is a quiet trade between well known players, meager rations for meager rations, and then they retreat from each other, scuttling into their hovels, until Depur’s watchers slink away. Each packed hovel, at this time, has a part to play, making the most of what little they have for the evening supper.

And then there is he second trade. Tureens of womprat soup passed through windows and over balconies, basket of milk bread baked with what herbs and desert seeds could be foraged snuk door to door by ducking children, jars of mashed roots mixed with nutrient powder and bantha milk carefully distributed to those who had no teeth to chew with, or where unable to chew for other reasons – injury, mostly.

The Amavikka did not abandon their own, and though it was illegal to be caught giving rations to another slave whose master did not wish for them to be fed, well, legality did little for the Amavikka.

And all through supper were whispers shared inside each hovel, and after, a third trade occurred. One from each household would leave to visit another, and so the whispers were spread, and all knew what might be valuable to know. Which Depur was losing money. Which Depur was hoarding. Which Depur was angry with another. Which slaves were at risk, which were sick, which were safe to go to if needs must.

Shaak Ti bore witness to the ritual of it all with quiet awe and respect, humbled to have been included in what little the Amavikka had to share.

That was how her padawan found her, late in the evening, helping a pair of young men scour pots and wooden utensils through a battered sonic scrubber unit.

“ _Jot mi neu_.” Shmi offers quietly in huttese, pulling a small synth-leather wrap from her boot and unfolding it to reveal a small toolkit.

“ _dopo mee nyowkee_.” One of the young men nods, gesturing to the struggling sonic unit. Shmi opens the casing with deft ease and runs her fingers through the mess of cobbled wires and improvised circuitry and quickly sets to work.

Shmi glances at Shaak, who studies her padawan in turn, trying to determine how Shmi is feeling now. The two young men glance between them, and, stalled in their efforts to clean up, wisely and casually walk away, moving to sit next to an elder being helped with his soft meal by a badly scarred zeltron.

“When Ben took us from this place, I swore I would never come back.” Shmi says quietly, turning her eyes back to her work, her delicate tools steady in her hands.

Shaak Ti looks down, her heart understanding Shmi’s perfectly for that vow.

“When I took you as my padawan, I was certain you would.” Shaak replies with a wry, apologetic smile. “Not so soon, of course, but…” Shaak Ti sighs, smoothing her hands together and glancing out a tattered drape to the star-lit desert beyond. “I never told you why I chose you, did I?” Shaak Ti asks.

Shmi glances at her quickly and then back away. “No.” She says.

“There was a boy I thought I’d take, when it was time.” Shaak Ti says. “I understood his character and his potential and I could see where his future would lead. Will lead,” Shaak Ti corrects. “Just no longer with me.”

“And then Ben Naasade descended on the Jedi Temple, and so did you.” Shaak Ti smiles. “We were in the gardens and I felt you skimming your senses through the temple. You were so very quiet, so very contained, but that was your first experience, I think, in any place so light and peaceful. I caught a glimpse, just a glimpse, of what you hid within yourself.” She pauses, drawing up that first memory of the slip of a woman sitting next to the strange Jedi Master who had the whole Temple in whispers. “And like a youngling catching their first glimpse of firefly, I wanted to chase it to see what it might be. But just as I reached for it, you hid it away again.” Shaak Ti says wistfully. “You are very good at that, dear Shmi. But I wanted to see more of it, to explore it, to learn what it was that made you…that made the best of you. It’s exactly what drives every master to take a padawan. But you were too old, you were a mother, a stranger to our ways, a former slave…and yet.”

“And yet.” Shaak Ti repeats, as it had nagged at her and teased her thoughts. _And yet…_

Shmi has stilled her hands, watching Shaak Ti with her full attention.

“I spoke with Ben about it, and we meditated over it, waiting for the younglings on Ilum.” Their boldness to do so on a planet full of kyber still made her reel sometimes, wondering what on earth she had been thinking. But back then, in those early days, Ben had seemed a solid and wise figure, if elusive. He still was, of course, but now she also knew he was absolutely insane, and not for the reasons that sent him to the Soul Healers.

“And I had a vision of you.” Shaak Ti says, winding down to the point. “And some time in the future, we were here, on Tatooine, on a world you had made free. And I knew, with a single glimpse of that version of you, that you would change me more than I could possibly know.”

Shmi looks away for a moment, and Shaak Ti studies her profile in the dim light of a cheap and faded solar-lamp. “To be honest, it scared me, the meanings beneath the possibilities of what I saw. And yet…” Shaak Ti smiles again, looking down at her reddened hands. “I have never more wanted to face any fear I have ever felt, than to find out what the rest of that future looked like, Shmi Skywalker.”

Shmi’s face turns down, blurred to look at with shields she had perfected long before she ever knew what a Jedi truly could do, and Shaak Ti feels her heart ache. “Please look at me, Shmi.”

Shmi does, looking up, and the mirage about her breaks, and there are tears clinging to her sharp brown eyes. “Shmi?”

The younger woman reaches for Shaak Ti’s hand and pulls it up to her lips, cradling it against a kiss, and then she folds into Shaak Ti’s space and embraces her like a child clinging to a mother.

Shaak Ti cradles her like one, feeling her shake and tremble. But she does not cry.

“I have never seen a future for myself. Not one that could be real.” Shmi whispers bitterly. “Nothing is promised to a slave. Nothing is promised to one who is no one. I could not see the path and so I did not know where I am walking, and I was as afraid of that as I ever was of having no future at all. But I had a past, and I wanted nothing more than to leave it behind, _Marrat_.” Shmi pulls back, wiping at her eyes with the back of her wrist, the way her son does when he is tired. “I thought coming here would be turning around and I hated….”Shmi bites her lip, looking away in shame, and Shaak Ti forgives her for where that sentence lead.

_I hated you for making me._

“But I am not turning around. I am not who I was. But if you can see who I might be…so can I.” Shmi says, eyes red-rimmed, but her presence in the Force as anchored as bedrock. “This is where I come from, it is where my people are, and it is where I will come back again. I am Amavikka, but I am also a Jedi, and because I am a Jedi, some day, I can set my people free.”

“And I will be with you.” Shaak Ti promises, tilting her montral crown proudly and thrumming with the intensity of the vast reach of her padawans convictions. “Just as I am now.”

~*~

“We are being watched.” Master Naasade remarks blandly, the four Jedi having been permitted into the Temple of Wisdom, which was, in effect, a school. One of the great tapestries shielded the great cavern within, and silk-like scrolls hung over every inch of wall and creeping vine and reaching branch within, each bearing a name and the story that belonged to it, and the touch of the memory of those who had writ it down. Throughout the walls of the Temple was a warren of cozy rooms in which Yaddle’s people met in formal and informal groups, to learn from each other new skills and old wisdoms.

The air was peaceful and rich with the Force, like the deeper, more ancient parts of the Jedi Temple of Coruscant (though those parts were also tinged with neglect, whereas here it was not), and Yaddle had worried slightly at Master Naasade’s reaction to it, his hands skimming the walls and his entire body almost bowing into the grasp of them, eyes fluttering shut in an intensely sharp burst of rue and grief and yearning that told her more about his soul than all their long months of observing him ever had.

Yaddle herself paused to place a hand on ancient wood, feeling the endless sprawl of generations of memory dancing from the branches scraping the sky a thousand feet above their heads to the roots sinking deep into water and stone, and the lacelike ephemeral pulse of _life-growth-endurance-connection_ that sang between this tree and all others.

And she too is sad.

This is what a Temple was _meant_ to feel like, and perhaps theirs on Coruscant had, once.

“Curious, they are.” Yaddle comments, continuing to admire the detailed works and dedications of her people. “Visitors from beyond the nebula, they have never witnessed before.”

“I don’t think that’s it.” Obi-Wan pipes up, Tsui nodding in agreement, though the little Aleen’s head was craned back, staring up at the faint shine of silver-yellow light dappling down through the web of scrolls and greenery above them.

“Perhaps you’d like to say hello?” Master Naasade comments, pulling his focus out of the strong call of the Temple and into their present circumstance, albeit reluctantly, to lift a brow at Yaddle.

Yaddle blinks at him slowly, finding him less than amusing, and turns towards the little shadows they have acquired, peering out from under one small tapestry covering a doorway. The two younglings blink slowly back at her, and then one shoves the other and then they are both less than gracefully stumbling their way towards her.

Yaddle’s keen ears pick up a strangely light keen just barely loud enough to hear, and to her amusement, feels a rush of _adoration-affection-excitement_ from Master Naasade, echoed by his padawan. Yaddle feels a slightly smug smile grace her lips, as they clearly find the younglings to be exceedingly cute, and the pair of them have a soft spot for little ones to begin with.

Yaddle’s own padawan is less effusive, but from Tsui she feels a mellower cloud of _shy-curious-hopeful_.

“I acknowledge you, younglings.” Yaddle greets them, offering her name as an imprint of herself in the Force.

“We acknowledge you, elder.” They reply, stumbling over each other a little as they speak, clearly close companions, and offer impressions of themselves, though clumsily, in return. “Our Jedi, are you?” The girl asks, blinking bronze eyes under olive green hair, and Yaddle is touched that when they say ‘our’ they are, in the under-speech that existed in the Force, claiming her to the tribe, in spite of her isolation from them.

“One of them.” Yaddle replies, shaping Yoda for them, and lean into each other, impressed by the impression, though mostly, she feels, by Yoda’s incredible age and vitality.

What passes between the two younglings next is only the sort of vague half-language that the closest of companions can decipher and interpret, and Yaddle waits them out expectantly.

“Looked after well, are you, elder?” the girl asks, exuding a worry of loneliness. “A tribe, two is not.”

Yaddle feels her heart soften for the girl, and opens her heart to the younglings, so that they may see all the many hands that have held hers, and all the many hearts her heart has reached, and the bright, burning bonds between them, that do not die with death. The girl breathes in sharply, and smiles, though her smile is faint and wobbles with unhappiness.

“Then go with you, I will.” The boy declares resolutely, dark grey eyes bright in his dark green face, and his hair a shiny beetle-black, which sprang nearly straight up in all directions. “Meant to, I am.”

He is. The girl is one of her people, her connection to the tribe running deep and sure, as essential to her life as her beating heart. The boys roots are just as deep, but he has a spirit that reaches for the stars.

Some hearts cannot be contained by one people, by one world.

“A name, you will need, for those who cannot feel you for who you are.” Yaddle tells him, encompassed by a great sense of exaltation for the tiny youngling before her, upon whom settled a purpose that had been served by one unbroken line for a time so long as to have had its beginnings forgotten.

“Mog, my name is.” He says surely, and lifts his arms to her. The aged Jedi lifts him up, and his springy hair tickles the underside of her ear as his light, warm weight settles in her grasp.

“An honor, upon the Jedi, you bestow, Mog.” Yaddle murmurs with feeling. “Grateful, I am, that with us, you will be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUTTESE:
> 
> jot mi neu = let me see?  
> dopo mee nyowkee = try your luck.
> 
> AUTHORS NOTES:  
> So this entire story existed in my notes for the longest time as just 'Mog and The Nebula' and i said his name to myself about a hundred times every time I thought ahead for this story, in as dramatic a fashion as possible.  
> Mog.   
> _Mog!_  
>  MOG.


	15. Chapter 15

Shaak Ti and Shmi had stayed on Tatooine only just long enough to gather suspicion, with how often they lingered in the slave quarters and whom around the city they spoke to. When Jabba’s enforcers began openly tailing them instead of subtly (for a given value of subtle) doing so, Shaak Ti thought it wiser to leave than find themselves in an altercation.

They spent part of each day at the markets, Shmi realizing that she would never have a better opportunity nor a better deal in acquiring her favorite spices and herbs from home, which were exceedingly difficult to find in the Core. Were Shaak Ti any other master, with any other Padawan, she’d have to give a cursory lecture on hoarding and vice attachment to material goods, but to do so here and now with Shmi Skywalker, such a lesson would ring false and flat. Shmi knew privation and abnegation to her bones. Still, for as many small crates and packed jars as her padawan acquired, Shaak Ti has no idea where she managed to secret them all away in their little ship.

She does know, however, that the entire vessel’s recycled atmosphere now smells strongly of spices and dry herbs and desert fruits, to the point where it is a constant tickle in Shaak’s more sensitive nose.

One long, early morning, before either sunrise, Shmi led Shaak Ti into the desert, kliks flying away beneath their speeder bikes, circling a dune sea, scraping the shadow of craggy cliffs. Shmi had showed her how plants hid in the ridges; how to find a serpent waiting in the dust, before its bite found you; where the sand was safe and where the sand turned treacherous; they met a group of jawas, and avoided a group of Tusken Raiders; and they went out and out as the suns came up, over a salt flat to a great bluff, where the ground just fell away.

The wind was a constant on Tatooine, and whipped up as their speeders engines wound down, cooling with rattling hiss. Looking over the bluff across the deep desert, Shaak Ti could believe that nothing would ever survive out there, but in the Force…life whispered gossamer-like over the surface, but clung stubbornly deep beneath the shift and flow of sand, hidden beneath the mirage.

A great, ferocious cry echoed over sand and stone, and Shaak Ti dropped to an instinctive crouch, lightsaber called to her hand. Shmi lays a hand on her shoulder, and a smile breaks across the younger womans face.

“That is Leia, _Marrat_.” Shmi tells her, and points out to the desert, strands of hair streaming back from her face in the wind, escaping her scarves and goggles.

Shaak Ti looks, catching more a shadow than a real glimpse in the distance, even enhancing her sight with the Force, but the krayt dragon slinks between distant dunes, head heavy with a proud curl of horns, and a whip-like tail lashing behind it.

That one slinks, and the second pounces, with a flash of snapping wings and striking claws, and the pair shrieks, taking off after each other. It’s a powerful and blood-chilling sound, even at great distance.

And in the night, Shaak Ti and Shmi do what Depur fears such as they would do, and Shmi finally masters a lesson she has long failed to comprehend. Shaak Ti teaches her padawan to search the boy for what is wrong, and here, Shmi finally learns. Together, they tell all those who wish to know where their slave chip has been implanted. For some, it is enough knowledge to risk running, a limb a cheap cost for freedom. For others, it is the knowledge of where the singer need cut, when the time is come.

There are fears Shmi Skywalker will never overcome, Shaak Ti knows, fears she herself cannot begin to comprehend the scope of, but at least, she believes, Shmi now knows the most vital of lessons; Not that all fears can be faced, but that it is at least _worth_ something to face them (even should you fail).

As they Tatooine, Shaak Ti feels that she has learned something too. There are things the Jedi must face, about themselves, about their role in the galaxy, and about their own fears and failures.

But for now…For now she is taking her Padawan to Shili. Shmi has offered her much of that which has made her who she is, and Shaak is determined to return the favor.

~*~

Knight Dahvo may lack certain color perceptions and he may find it difficult to distinguish similar faces of other species from one another, but his sense of smell is rarely fooled.

Which is, perhaps why he feels so horribly humiliated that he is a full day into hyperspace before he realizes he has one more passenger than he ought to.

“Shmi _Skywalker_ ,” He growls under his breath. “We are going to have a very severe conversation about teaching toddlers how to _vanish_.”

Hiding themselves in the Force was one thing, but finding out a four year old can also hide from physical perception as well is uncomfortably jarring, and Dahvo is used to smuggling Amavikka to freedom. Still, none he had ever met had quite had the talent Shmi’s students displayed for the art.

So he has one yellow-and-white dressed youngling under his arm, and the other yellow-and-white dressed boy snagged by the back of his tunics, and were it not that one child had dark eyes and the other blue – well, they looked _very_ similar.

“I have to turn this ship around.” Dahvo says, stupefied with his own circumstances. “I _actually_ have to _turn this ship around_. What were you two _thinking_?” He demands incredulously, his growl unintended as it rattled his voice from low in his throat. His fur is standing on end, and he has absolutely no desire to make the comm-calls he should be making right this very second.

“Jax doesn’t _like_ the crèche.” Anakin says shrilly, wriggling under Dahvo’s arm. “He shouldn’t have to stay there. He _likes_ me, he should be with _me_.”

“That is not how this works!” Dahvo replies, just as shrilly. “Anain Skywalker, do you have any idea how worried his clanmaster will be? How unhappy your mother will be?”

“His clanmaster forgets him half the time.” Anakin rolls his eyes quite well for a youngling, crossing his arms with a ferocious pout. “And Amu would _never_ send him away. He’s gonna be my brother, and _we’ll_ look after him.”

Dahvo stares at the boy in disbelief, the other hanging in resignation from his shirt in Dahvo’s grasp. “That is not how this _works_!” Dahvo repeats more firmly.

“Well, it _should_!” Anakin declares hotly.

“No.”

“Yes!”

“No.” Dahvo repeats.

“ _Yes_!” Anakin retorts, his insistence blazing in the Force.

“We are going back to the Temple.” Dahvo declares. “I am so disappointed in the both of you. You should have known better.”

“But we’re going to Shili!” Anakin protests. “Amu’s on Shili!”

“And I will take you there once Jax is safely returned to the crèche.” Dahvo replies.

“But Jax doesn’t like it there!” Anakin shrieks, really fighting now until Dahvo puts him down for fear he might hurt himself. Anakin immediately wraps his arms around Jax, who Dahvo lets touch the ground as well, now that they aren’t both trying to bolt.

“Anakin, he’s a Jedi youngling and the Temple is his home.” Dahvo sighs, knowing that Jax is still relatively new and that it can be a trying and often frightening transition for younglings, no matter how much the Jedi try to soothe them.

“I can be his home! And Amu!”

“And Master Ti?” Dahvo questions. “What about her responsibilities, Anakin? Is it your decision to make her take on his care as well?”

“She’s a good person!” Anakin declares. “She wouldn’t want him to be unhappy.”

Dahvo sighs deeply, and crouches down. “Anakin, it is not always so simple.” He looks between the boys, between Anakin’s emotionally flushed face and Jax’s dark, solemn eyes, the quiet boy leaning into Anakin’s presence like a flower leaning into sunlight.

Anakin glares back at Dahvo, and there is something in his presence in the Force that boils, like the air off sand melting to glass, and he juts out his chin mulishly. “Ask her.” He says.

Dahvo flicks an ear. “Pardon?”

“Ask Master Ti.” Anakin says sharply, curled protectively about the other boy. “And Amu. About Jax.”

Sighing at the boys immense resolve, albeit impressed with it, Dahvo accedes to that. “Alright,” He agrees. “I’ll call.” Which was bound to be one of the most awkward conversations of his life, given…well, being a day out in hyperspace asking if they wouldn’t mind adopting his stowaway, and oh, yes, let’s not mention what this was going to do to any future vessel requisitions.

‘Have you double checked your cargo, Dahvo?’

‘Care to update your passenger manifest, Dahvo?’

‘Maybe I should give her another look, you know, just to make sure you haven’t missed anything, eh Dahvo?’

And if Shaak Ti said no?

Well, then he would probably _also_ have to deal with tears.

~*~

There are rituals and rites to be observed, before Mog is to leave with them. One of which is the penning of a scroll for Master Yoda, though his life is not yet done, and his story not yet over. Still, Yaddle will write it down as it is, and leave room for the last, whatever it may be, when the time comes.

For Mog, the boy is visited by all of his tribe, and his send-off follows much as the hatchling’s welcome had, with each of them laying a clawed hand over his springy beetle-black hair and offering a piece of themselves to him in the Force.

“We aren’t even allowed to tell anyone about this, are we?” Obi-Wan asks solemnly, coming to stand at Ben’s elbow, looking up with blue-green eyes that seem more vivid in this atmosphere, so vivid they don’t seem quite real.

“We have been given a great privilege to be witnesses here,” Ben replies softly, laying a hand on his padawans shoulder. “But no, we are never to speak of it. If the people of the nebula wished to be known, they would be.”

“I think Shmi would have loved it, though.” Obi-Wan says wistfully, surprising Ben, who lifts a brow.

“Shmi?” He repeats.

“She has a deeper sense for the meaning of _places_.” Obi-Wan nods. “Haven’t you noticed? I think she could lose herself in this planet for awhile. You’re sensitive to it too.” His padawan adds, surprising him again.

“Oh.” Ben remarks, for lack of anything eloquent to say as he stares down his padawan, whose grasp of the motivations and nuances of others is far better than his was at that age.

Obi-Wan eyes him, and the corner of his mouth quirks a little. “Though I doubt she’d enjoy the atmosphere any more than you.” He says cheekily.

“Humidity is a curse meant to tempt the soul into darkness.” Ben mutters, tugging on Obi-Wan’s braid. “I am resisting such temptation admirably, padawan mine.”

Obi-Wan snickers.

For all that Mog is intelligent and reasonable and halfway through his third decade, he is still a youngling, and tuckered out by the time they make the long trek back to the ship. Yaddle carries him in a basket on her back, along with a few tokens and supplies her people had bequeathed to them. They stop several times, and the journey takes much longer now that they are not fresh off their vessel, but several days in an atmosphere only Yaddle was suited for.

When they finally reach the water landing, there is a second ship on the landing pod next to theirs, of a sleek, foreign design Ben has never seen. He can make out a taller figure speaking to their captain, but almost as soon as Ben notices them, they notice the incoming party, and separate to their respective ships. He glimpses blue skin and black hair, and reaches out curiously in the Force, and is made more curious by what he feels. They aren’t Force Sensitive, whomever they are, but their presence is guarded by the polished sharpness of a trained mind.

They return to their vessel and are out of the atmosphere before the Jedi even make it to the appropriate dock.

“Who were they?” Tsui asks, drooping where he stood next to an equally sweaty and slog-weary Obi-Wan.

Yaddle says nothing, but Ben feels that it is a pointed silence. Another secret of the nebula.

“I haven’t a clue.” Ben replies honestly, eyeing her, and their impatiently waiting captain, who has suffered as well for the hot, humid, heavy atmosphere. Obi-Wan’s puzzled frown has the hints of a pout, but he turns and helps Tsui navigate the walkway to their vessel and drops the issue.

“Concerned, we need not be.” Yaddle tells Ben quietly.

“If you’re certain.” Ben replies neutrally, and then picks up his pace into the vessel, eagerly anticipating a dehydrator and a towel.

His boots squelch.


	16. Chapter 16

The co-pilot was staring at him, and Obi-Wan was beginning to find it irritating. Their transit from Yaddle’s planet to Obi-Wan’s was a two day journey. From what Obi-Wan had understood of the mental conversation, it was currently a bad solar alignment for jumping hyperspace towards that sector of the nebula, so they were practicing a maneuver he that was more or less referred to as skip-lighting (which made more sense in mental conversation that actual conversation). The vessel would travel just on the edge of lightspeed, and use gravitational currents, rather than a hyperdrive, to sling the vessel into hyper-speed for short intervals before dropping back to sub-light to avoid dangerous regions and reach the next skip-point.

Their pilots let Tsui and Obi-Wan observe the maneuvers from the cockpit, so they could see how it was done, but Tsui found the mental language hard to grasp, and the pilots often stopped mid-expanation to focus, so Obi-Wan got frustrated with the bit-by-bit informational lapses.

Which had driven him to work on his lightsaber, such as that was….not really going well.

And the co-pilot was currently between maneuvers, and had paced the transport to stretch her legs, and now she was staring at him while he tried to feel out the pieces, a more and more maddening endeavor given the discordance of his two Adegan crystals.

The only thing he knew with absolute certainty was going into his lightsaber was the beskar casing, and he’d had to dig and dig through the Temple collection to find one.

His master had joined him for awhile, refitting the new elements into his old grip, and Obi-Wan had watched him warily, because there was an insane amount of power in the copper-violet blade, and adding a focusing element to enhance that power only made his teeth ache for all that his master seemed perfectly at ease tinkering with a weapon that could vaporize this ship if it exploded.

“We’ve focused mostly on physical manipulation and on your senses, Obi-Wan.” His master had remarked, amused. “Remind me to focus a few of your lessons on the manipulation of _energy_.”

Obi-Wan prayed in the back of his mind that he could conveniently forget to make that reminder.

Master Ben had eventually been satisfied with the refit, and was now resting in a cargo hammock with Mog curled up on his chest. Yaddle and Tsui were likewise sleeping. A few more minutes and Obi-Wan was going to give up and join them.

“ _What_?” Obi-Wan asks, and is rewarded with a rapidly familiar sense of _scolding-irritation_ for using his actual voice.

The question she sends him is charts and parts and the connective click of puzzle pieces coming together, which more or less works out to ‘ _Don’t you have schematics for that_?’

“No.” Obi-Wan retorts, and gets another wash of _discomfited-irritation_. “A lightsaber has a certain operational design – power cell, converter, crystal, aperture lense, casing, grip. But aside from the functional design, the rest is built on instinct, and the Force. Why does my voice bother you so much? I know you’re not mute, I’ve heard you laugh.” Obi-Wan asks, dropping the pieces he already knows it is futile to try and put together.

She sends him a sense of laughter, singing, weeping, and reflects his own voice back at him. ‘ _The outer-voice is not_ wrong _. It is an expression,’_ She says. Then she sends him something that flickers through his mind with much more complexity, someone holding out a hand in the dark saying “I am your friend” to someone else, holding a knife, who says also “I am your friend”. ‘ _But like your face it also lies. The inner-voice is not so easily disguised. It is touched with the essence of who-I-am, and is so less easily mistaken for what it is not. To speak with your tongue is to ensure I hear only half of what you mean to say. It is both rude and suspicious among my-_ our _?-my people._ ’

Obi-Wan frowns, taking in that bit of cultural reality, and wincingly tries to broadcast. ‘ _I did not mean to offend_.’ He tries.

He is rewarded with a faint delight, and amusement. ‘ _I did not think you meant to offend. I only thought you were annoying. You are a natural, why do you cringe to speak as your born-people do?_ ’

‘ _Because it hurts people_.’ Obi-Wan projects back, the memories of the wincing looks and headaches he’s caused, his mental voice slamming into their shields with unintentional force. There is also a flaring pain in the echo of the memory of what his master inadvertently did to him.

She frowns back at him. ‘ _Only because they are closed to you_.’

‘ _It’s not safe to leave your mind open_.’ Obi-Wan refutes, recognizing the parallel between the crushing wave of the nebula which would shatter a shielded mind and instead now merely flowed over it to his own voice slamming onto his friends shields.

‘ _And yet this is the way of our people, and we are not harmed_.’ She retorts, lifting a dark red brow. ‘ _Where did you get that idea?_ ’

A thousand dark warning from the crèche, and the memory of an initiate who accidentally did what he should not have done, and something _else_ got _in_. What it left of his mind by the time the Soul Healers managed to help was never quite the same, never quite complete.

Her response is horrified, recoiling back, her presence condensing in on itself as opposed to shielding, with a warning to _back off_ that stung if he reached close enough. He could still sense her through the burning warning, but courtesy would give her privacy. It was an interesting defense, from his perspective.

‘ _How could your people let such a thing happen_?’

‘ _Let_?!’ Obi-Wan protests angrily, glaring at her. ‘ _We teach our young how to shield their minds so as to prevent this!_ ’

She glares back, and then seems to realize that she is the adult, and must recompose herself to act more rationally, which Obi-Wan finds slightly insulting. He is a Jedi, after all.

What comes next is an invitation, and Obi-Wan hesitates, blushing. To draw so close in the far was far more intimate than any physical connection ever could be.

She rolls her eyes with a mental swat, and gives him a glimpse of eyes within eyes. ‘ _Let me let you see as I see_.’ She offers.

Steeling himself, and reinforcing the reminder not to draw up his shields, Obi-Wan nods, and lets her presence coax his mind in the Force. Past the buzzing exterior of surface thoughts and emotions, but not so deep as to reach the core of what she felt and what she believed and what made her who she was, Obi-Wan is drawn into a blinding, shimmering web of bonds that established a framework around her open mind through which nothing could harm her.

‘ _Clan-Kin-Bond,_ this _is my shield_.’ She sings, and Obi-Wan can feel all those others in her head taking note of him, and the press of _worry-concern-outrage-questioning_ that made his own thoughts spin fruitlessly until she gleefully pushes him back out, as if his mental presence had a physical grasp, and, well, within the Force, and the scape of the mind, if she believed it did, then it made no difference whether it really did or not. He is pushed out, and his own mind seems dim and lonely in comparison, with only the burning line connecting him to his master, and the silken threads that connected him more loosely and more fragilely to others, the next strongest being to Anakin, who was all of four and wouldn’t face the same retribution for the stain of _attachment_ that Obi-Wan does.

He marvels at the difference, and at the deep, pervading sense of freedom he caught by her unconstrained psyche, open to all the world and all her senses always, and held safe and true by a great many who loved her.

‘ _Thank you for showing me that_.’ Obi-Wan bows his head reverently.

She offers a mental shrug and the pilot reaches out to her with a vague query. Certainly more convenient than shouting, Obi-Wan thinks, is the ability to whisper to one another from across the ship.

Or farther. If her family is on planet, they are still hours away by lightspeed, but were still so quickly aware of his trespass…

It’s something to think about, at least.

~*~

The cities of Shili are shining beacons on yellow-orange continents littered with teal and green bodies of water, great swathes of red-burgandy forests, and the flickering rainbow of sweeping plains of deep, vividly colorful grass and scrub.

When they land, Shmi finds the air warm, but not like the scorching heat of Tatooine. It’s sweeter, touched by plants and water, and Shmi sucks in deep, slow lungfulls of grateful breath.

“Is this your village?” Shmi asks, eyeing the cleared circles ringed in juts of yellow stone, marking spaces for vehicals to land – mostly terrestrial transports for goods, but a few offworld ships too- and beyond them, the white-tiled domes and oblong structures that made up the homes and public buildings, sprawling and languid compared to the cloistered quarters on Tatooine and the city-scape of Coruscant.

“Of my birth? No.” Shaak Ti shakes her head, a distant sadness folding like a mist from her end of the bond, and fading just as quickly. “That village was destroyed when I was a youngling. This is where Master Sumat Khoda was born. Among the Togruta, it is tradition for a young warrior to perform a ceremonial hunt as a necessary part of their coming-of-age. A trial, if you will, of their ability to rely only on themselves, and the skills of their own hands, to not only survive, but to do so _and_ provide for their people. Master Khoda was my hunt-mother. She brought me here for my coming-of-age, and she was the one who performed the traditional rites and…other discussions, privy to a girl becoming a woman.” Shaak Ti says wryly, amusement and past embarrassment a rich addition to her tone.

“She was not your master?” Shmi frowns, knowing that it was not another Togruta who trained Shaak Ti.

“No.” Shaak Ti smiles. “But those of us who share a culture beyond the Jedi look out for such traditions regardless. The Jedi may be _The Jedi_ , but we are a people of the galaxy still, Shmi, and we are woven from its cloth.”

“As I am and always will be Amavikka.” Shmi says, understanding. “And as Ben is both Jedi and Mandalorian.”

“His is a slightly more difficult balance.” Shaak Ti comments, regarding the history between the Jedi and Mandalore, and the vows required by one or the other which were at odds with each other. “But yes.”

“Have you been a hunt-mother?” Shmi inquires.

“Yes.” Shaak Ti grins, a freer expression than she usually indulges in, for it reveals her sharper teeth. “I have had the honor of being hunt-mother for two other young Jedi on their path to womanhood, and, if need arises, I guide them still, as Master Khoda did me.”

Shmi appraises the fierce pride her _Marrat_ takes in all her students and herself feels a glow, for some of that pride is for Shmi also.

“In fact, one of my hunt-daughters had heard we would be on Shili, and has decided now is the _opportune_ time for her student to make the hunt.” Shaak Ti says cheerfully.

“A mother always needs a mothers advice.” Shmi says wisely, and Shaak Ti trills musically.

“So it is so.” Shaak Ti says. “But come, Shmi, let me show you _my_ people.”


	17. Chapter 17

The air carries the whispering grasses, and the burbling streams, the distant roar of a waterfall, and joyous shriek of some unfamiliar bird, but it is the inside of his skull that is noisy.

This world is small, and what isn’t island chains in shallow oceans is river-valleys, craggy, shear-sided mountains, and sweeping bluffs. Where there are hills there are forests, and where there aren’t, the wind whistles by. The same dappled grey grasses grow here that cover Stewjon, but the bluffs Ben can see are silvery-green granite instead of rich red stone, and the fields are dappled with bright sprays of flowers, yellow and white, blue and red and pink.

‘ _Home_.’ Their pilot muses, sweeping low over the landscape to let them take in the view. Ben does not speak back to her that way. He’s gone to the trouble of trying to make himself as unlike them as he can without drawing other suspicions. He knows his own padawan can tell something is different, but can’t quite name what. He’s woven a thin illusion over himself, though most of it is nothing but a projected suggestion. He’s dulled the red tones in his hair to sandy blonde, and drawn more attention to the grey in his eyes than the blue, and sharpened the look of the freckles drawn on his skin by years of Tatooine’s harsh suns. He can do very little for the shape of his face other than emphasize his age, but the beard and the shoulder-length hair helps, and he thinks it should be enough that his likeness to Obi-Wan is mistaken for a passing similarity and nothing more.

He has also drawn up the barest shield to his mind, to obscure that manipulaton from open attention of these peoples. The headache is staggering when he loses focus and the careful mental balancing act slips, but…Obi-Wan is not yet even fifteen. Ben would like to put off that particular conversation for as long as possible.

Cities and settlements dot the landscape, and the infrastructure speaks to the history here, the age. True stone foundations, meticulously cared for for generations hold up constructions of newer alloys and transparisteel. Golden solar sails are strung between archaic granite watchtowers, and some walls have been repaired and sealed with bronzimite, showing the scars in ancient stone while shoring them up, both infrastructure and art.

‘ _What are those_?’ Obi-Wan asks, having caught on easily to the mental language of his people. He’s pointing to what looks like notihng so much as hollow silver spires that ring cities and settlements at distant intervals.

‘ _Storm Generators’_ The co-pilot replies, with the echo of rolling thunder and a ferocious snap and flash of lightning, accompanied by a rain so loud you could not think. Power, raw, wild power, and a wing that came up to cover a fragile egg. ‘ _They draw power directly from the weather to fuel the force-shields, else we’d lose everything. Half our history is a history of rewriting what we’d already written. The storms are cyclical, and time was that when they came through…if you didn’t die, you started over. They would scour the entire world anew_.’

 _Not unlike Lukka_ , Ben thinks to himself, while his padawan eyes the skies as they make their final descent into the city. Right now, the sky is a cheery lavender hue, strung across with whispy clouds, and no threat of a looming storm.

Their landing was smooth, and they piled out of the ship eager for non-recycled air, and the internal noise caught him off-guard. For a single moment, he instinctively yanks on his shields and the resulting stab of pain almost buckles him at his knees. Their co-pilot steadies him with some alarm, and Ben shakes his head with a grimace. She doesn’t even need to broadcast. The look she gives him conveys exactly how stupid she thinks he is.

It’s like walking through the Senate Dome during recess, a thousand murmured conversations from every angle and corner, though he would have to make an effort to listen to any one of them, except it is all tangled inside his head, and his ears only hears the sounds that nature is making.

Tsui moans a little, and Yaddle soothes her padawan as he struggles to find equilibrium himself, Mog peering curiously over her houlder from his perch in the basket on her back.

‘ _You don’t have a clan to shelter you_ ,’ Their pilot tells them, when they seem to have settled themselves. She looks at Tsui with pity, being so young and overwhelmed. ‘ _so we are taking you to the Court-of-Equal-Voices. They provide neutrality between the clans and will give you a place to speak to them about your Search_.’

‘ _Appreciated, that is_.’ Yaddle replies, keeping close to a hunched Tsui Choi as they walk.

‘ _What is your clan_?’ Obi-Wan inquires, full of innocent curiosity. ‘ _If I may ask_?’

“Sarai.” Their pilot replies, amused that only now they think to ask. They have been addressing their pilot and co-pilot entirely by title, as neither had ever offered their name. “I am Ler-Nua Kensarai. Sarai is my clan, Ler my family, and Nua is my honorific.” She says, her real voice low and slightly rasping from little use.

Obi-Wan blinks, his mental grasp stuttering for a moment “So my clan would be Kenobi, and….my family name is also Obi?”

“Ken denotes the clan title.” She shakes her head. “Your family would have been The Obi’s of Clan Obi.”

Ben feels the trace of piteous reluctant in her voice, and his padawan doesn’t miss it either.

“Would have been?” Obi-Wan repeats smally.

She grimaces. ‘ _I am surprised they let you keep your name._ ’ She projects. ‘ _We keep to our own, and you were given up. You are not one of us._ ’

Obi-Wan pales sickly, for all they can feel her earnest kindness, her desire not to hurt him, but also her desire to be honest.

“Oh.” He utters quietly, and Ben reaches out to his padawan, who stumbles towards him and leans into his side. Ben had settled his heart long ago on whatever may or may have been between him and his people, but Obi-Wan had been hopeful when Yaddle told them where they were going.

~*~

“Something bothering you, dear Shmi?” Shaak Ti inquires, peeling pods out of a pomo-fruit and chewing on them with relish as they walked. She has traded her long robes for a knee-length, loose garment in bright white and teal with loose sleeves, which is much better suited to the environment and puts something in her at ease, to feel more like one of her people for a moment, than a Jedi.

“I am beginning to feel very short.” Shmi replies easily, carefully splitting her own fruit, offering a piece to a sticky-fingered youngling who had discovered that sad eyes would get him everything as he trailed in Shmi’s wake. “I did not realize so many of your people were so very tall.” She says, and Shaak trills a laugh.

“I am very slight for one of my people.” Shaak Ti apologies humorously. “So you may lay your false expectations at my feet.”

Shmi gives her a look, dark brown eyes lit with humor. “I will do so.” She sniffs.

“Though you will not be alone for long.” Shaak Ti reminds her.

The humor in Shmi’s eyes sharpens into something else, as close to a hunting glint as she perhaps will ever get. “Yes.” She replies shortly.

They were walking back towards the landing fields in expectation of Knight Dahvo’s arrival, and the Shmi much preferred to give a scolding in person.

Personally, Shaak Ti did not entirely blame the Knight. There was something between Anakin Skywalker and Jax Pavan that seemed interchangeable, and there were often days when the two of them came together that she mistook which one was currently tripping her up beneath her feet, and it had very little to do with their physical similarities.

In the Force, Jax was a candle compared to Anakin’s sunrise, but through the Force, it was also often difficult to tell which light came from Anakin and which came from Jax, the distinction between them blurred in proximity.

Still, the man served the cause of smuggling freed slaves. He should not be so easily fooled by a stowaway four year old.

Shmi would never send the youngling away, her role as a community mother too deeply ingrained into her person, which left the responsibility of the decision on Shaak Ti, who was Shmi’s Jedi Master.

She could not in good conscience, refuse outright when the boy was clearly desperate of something, but neither could she, without deeper contemplation and consideration make any promises.

So Jax Pavan would be joining them on Shili, at least for now, and Shaak Ti would be making several inquiries into the crèche as to the boys situation.

"Mistress Jedi! Mistress Jedi!" Shaak Ti and her padawan pause as they are hailed, and a weathered-faced elder Togruta hustles up to them with an age stiffened gate, his lekku long and thinly striped, and his montrals a proud crown above a creased brow.

" Elder." Shaak Ti bows respectfully to the citizen. " What can we do for you?" She inquires.

"Mistress Jedi, I would like to request-"

"No! Akkani Taahsu you moldering weevil-"

Another elder approaches them with a hasty, mincing shuffle, her lekku trailing just as low, her face just as deeply weathered by time, and she bore a staff as a standing support as she huffed to a stop in front of them, tipping her montrals in scant respect and humility to the jedi. "Mistress Jefi, please, allow me to-"

"Clearly, Madame Ty, I was the first to approach-" Elder Taahsu huffs irritably, giving his fellow elder a disdainful look. " and it will be my honor to-"

"Your honor?" Madame Ty retorts. "Preposterous."

"Elders." Shaak Ti implores beseechingly.

"And what would _you_ know of honor-"

"You dare!" She sputters indignantly.

"Elders!" Shaak Ti tries again, to no great effect, and Shmi, observing the argument with increasing concern, clears her throat, which reminds Shaak Ti that this is a Togruta matter, not a Jedi one.

They are on _Shili_.

Shaak Ti draws in a deep breath, and let's loose a high, piercing Togruti whistle that would echo for levels in the Jedi temple and as it is cuts clearly up and down the road, drawing alert looks and an instantaneous look of gall on the faces of the two elders, appalled at being chastised like rowdy teenlings.

"What, precisely, appears to be the issue, Elders?"

" I would like to request-"

"No I-"

"One of you will finish what you mean to say or I will listen to neither of you." Shaak Ti scolds. "Now, please."

"Our grandsons are to be wed and I would like the honor of having arranged for the jedi to profess their union."

"An honor _I_ deserve." Madame Ty grumbles.

Shaak Ti looks between them both in exasperation. "Elders, perhaps your grandsons would feel it a far higher honor if it were seen that the two of you _together_ sought and attained a Jedi professor for their union?" She offers.

The pair stare at her in consternation, and then give each other disgruntled looks.

"But I would never-"

"It would be unthinkable-"

Shaak Ti and Shmi share a look and a sigh, waiting out elderly discontent and rivalry until the pair finally capitulate.

"I suppose-"

"For my grandson, perhaps-"

"Excellent." Shaak Ti tips her montrals. "Then if you would like to discuss the details?" Shaak Ti inquires, leaning over to snag Shmi's sleeve as the younger woman attempts to slip away unobtrusively.

Being a master of ceremony was just as much the duty of a Jedi as diplomatic negotiation and defense, and it was not one Shmi would long get away with shirking, for all that public speaking displeased her.

Shmi gives her a slightly betrayed look and Shaak Ti grins. They can see the landing fields from where they stand. They will _know_ when Knight Dahvo comes in to land.

 _No excuses, dear Shmi_. Shaak Ti thinks.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author Notes: Forgive me if this chapter is a little rough. I wrote this from my phone while camping.


	18. Chapter 18

"Keep practicing like that and you're going to make yourself worse than you were before."

When Quinlan snaps around with a violent flare of his blade, a sensible opponent would have ignited their own for a defensive block.

In some cases, it is better to be skilled than sensible. Padawan Luminara Unduli does not even reach for her blade, nor does she stop speaking in surprise. In a display of reflexes and flexibility Quinlan will take the time to appreciate later, she ducks under the sweep of his humming blade and follows her own momentum in a light step that takes her out of his reach. Quinlan blinks stupidly at her for sneaking up behind him, and Luminara lifts her open hands in apology.

"I think worse  _is_ the overall assessment of my condition." Quinlan snaps defensively, disengaging his lightsaber because he doesn't trust himself with it and no one else does either.

"I've heard many things said about you, Padawan Vos." She lifts a dark blue brow. " That you were stupid and self-pitying was not one of them."

Quinlan gawps, before an icy, bitter anger rises up, thick enough to choke on. Against the desperate denying cries of the side of him that feels warm and cares deeply, that makes Aayla smile and would do anything to make things the way they used to be between him and Obi-Wan, Quinlan reignites his saber with a dark snarl.

Luminara glances dispassionately at it and then back up to his face, her hands clasped passively together in front of her. " You approach the world from a different perspective, one that is passionate and destructive. It changes you mindset, but not, as I understand it, your skills or your intelligence. Saying you are worse is a truth that depends entirely on your point of view."

Quinlan is confused, and that dark intent that scrabbled at the back of his mind seeking purchase like an infection seeking a host is also confused. "A-are you lecturing me?" He asks, baffled.

Luminara tilts her head thoughtfully. "Challenging your negative self-image." She replies. "Your focus determines your reality. If you are certain you are evil, then you cannot then overcome evil, can you?"

"The Jedi don't believe you can Un-Fall." Quinlan retorts.

Luminara frowns. "That is the general understanding." She admits. "But the question isn't what the Jedi as an organization believe, is it? The question is what you as an individual believe."

Quinlan swallows tightly. He doesn't know what he believes. There is still too much conflict inside his mind for him to ever be certain. But he knows what his master believes, and what Obi-Wan and  _his_ master believes, and even little Aayla Secura too, and he trusts- he  _wants_ to trust in them.

"Why are you here?" Quinlan demands, in lieu of an answer. It was late, and the salles were near empty, and no one ever came within ten yards of Quinlan if they didnt absolutely have to- either out of fear or out of the superstition that darkness was so easily catching, as if it didnt take his spirit and his sense of self being torn apart for him to Fall.

"You looked like you could use a sparring partner, and mine is out of Temple." Luminara says, as if were so simple.

 _Why can't it be?_ That soft, warm voice inside his mind questions, slipping through the sharp claws and roiling miasma of the other.

"No one spars with me." Quinlan snaps.

"With that attitude I can't image why." She says dryly, palming her saber. "You'll get rusty fighting air." She lectured again. "And I always enjoy a new challenge. So shall we?" 

Quinlan narrows his eyes at her and rolls his shoulders, twirling his lightsaber absently. " I'd hate to deprive you." He drawls.

She smiles, and lights her blade.

Quinlan finds himself smiling too.

~*~

 The Court of Equal Voices is housed in a long, tiered hall, with broad, square columns of polished green-veined-white marble and tall artisian windows of amber-tempered transparisteel. It is both soothingly quiet and annoyingly loud. Obi-Wan noted its similarity to the halls of the Senate Building dryly, with squabbling leaking through the air from all sides, held barely in check by civility and the oversight of a separate power.

Green and white seem to be the banner colors of the court, judging by those individuals he could see who appeared to be in a uniform of some sort. Separate clans, likewise, were denoted by the colors threaded through their tartan, worn as kilts or sashes or ceremonial over-the-shoulder cloaks, depending, he gathered, on their position within the clan.

He wonders what Clan Obi's colors were, and then tries not to wonder. He would not have the right to wear them. It shouldn't be so significant, being denied something he would never have even known, but it _feels_ significant. It aches.

' _Hello, Jedi._ ' A green-and-white clad service member approached them, and were it not for the clan color distinctions, Obi-Wan truly would find it a tremendous task to differentiate different groups among his people. Without fail, every one of them was red haired, pale skinned and fair-eyed. The shades of red varied from strawberry blonde to auburn-black to blood ruby red, and the eyes from light hazel to smoky violet, but as far as color variation went, it was extremely narrow among a large population of humans. "Advocate Wes, at your service." He says, his eyes a warm green and his hair a dark ginger.

' _Only Wes?'_ Master Ben inquires, studying the other man, who smiles simply.

' _We give up our Clan and Familial status for the duration of our service to the Court-of-Equal-Voices_.' Advocate Wes answers easily, letting a sense of duty and honor press through to them.

' _But is that really possible_?' Obi-Wan questions, cringing at the idea of uprooting oneself from the network of bonds their people practiced. Wes seems to catch his intent of the question, and Obi-Wan is beginning to understand the pilots point about the efficiency of direct mental communication.

Wes' response is less an argument than a demonstration, a web within a web with himself in the center. The outer web exists, he is still connected to it, but is the inner web that he sees and hears and feels and is minded by. And the Court becomes that inner web, beholden first and foremost to their duty.

' _Thank you_.' Obi-Wan bows his gratitude, and Wes smiles in return.

' _Well then, I would like to offer my services for the duration of your visit, Masters and Students Jedi. I was led to believe you are here to._..' there is a mental pause, grasping a hard-to-adequately-define concept. ' _Adopt a child into your Order? A long-standing tradition between our peoples._ ' He nods his respect. ' _I've been given access to our records in that regard, if you would like to review them.'_

' _Necessary, that will not be._ ' Yaddle replies, but a flash of longing strikes Obi-Wan, and the advocate turns back to him. _'But your assistance, appreciated greatly, that will be.'_

 _'I-_ ' Obi-Wan hesitates, scrambling his own thoughts. ' _Could I see my records? Of my clan_?' He requests.

Wes considers him thoughtfully.

' _I will see what I can do.'_ The Advocate promises, to Obi-Wans relief.

~*~

 Shaak Ti thinks Shmi let Knight Dahvo off far more lightly than she intended to, if only because the knight looked defeated every step down the loading ramp of his vessel and all but cowered when he came to stand before Shmi.

And Shmi was never comfortable standing in power over anyone who cowered before her, whetherthey deserved her wrath or not. Still, Shaak Ti believes Knight Dahvo did not need Shmi's piercing look of disappointed disapproval to learn his lesson. Being outfoxed by a four year old was punishingly shameful enough that the Knight was no doubt lashing himself from here to the Temple and back.

Anakin and Jax on the other hand...Shmi was not one to raise a voice or a hand, but the intense, cloistered conversation she had with the boys, crouched down on their level and with a chin cupped in each hand left them both teary eyed and solemn and very, very sorry. Anakin made a very detailed and sincere apology to Knight Dahvo before he left, on behalf of himself and Jax.

Aside from their escapades prior to arrival, both boys quickly folded into Shmi and Shaak Ti's shadows as they toured the village and the surrounding landscape, Shask guiding Shmi along popular trails and down the riverbed, and ensuring she knew the danger signs of the great predators.

Shaak Ti had the right to wear Akul fangs for having slain one in a solo hunt. 

But it was not an honor she had set out toreceive. Her coming of age had meant to be a hunt of far easier game, and she had instead herself been hunted.

The village of her birth had been ravaged by one such beast, and it generally took many hunters to bring one down. Shaak Ti wished her student no such ill encounters.

When they were not exploring, they were well kept busy. There was a wedding to prepare for, and a coming of age hunt for her hunt-daughters student, and life in a Togruta village was never dull. Shmi seemed to find her people a tad louder than her nerves were used to, but enjoyably  musical nonetheles. She enjoyed the evening dances in the village square, traditional relics of the old religion, appeasing the spirits to protect the village and bring good harvest. An outdated - but weren't all traditions? - yet pretty ritual.

And that was to say nothing of the day to day industry. Togruta prized themselves not only on their traditional skills, but on their artistry as well, and always somewhere was there an artist, sculpting clay or mixing paint, weaving or carving, and this was a less well-travelled village. The both of them were outsiders, and honored Jedi, but Shmi was also not a Togruta, and thus the obvious choice of a patron to show off to. Shaak Ti's padawan became very popular company very quickly, and Shaak Ti laughed at how it disgruntled Shmi so, for all that she seemed to find the crafts fascinating.

"Master Ti!"

If Shaak didnt hear that cries out thrice an hour, she'd bite her own lekku. She and Shmi turn in sync, and Shaak Ti feels surprised delight overtake her at the sight of her eldest hunt-daughter. No longer a whip-cord youth with broad stripes and nubby montrals, Coorah Arkona had filled out into a stocky Knight with lavender striping and honey colored eyes, a padawan trailing in her wake.

Coorah trills at the sight of her, the sound buzzing in Shaak's lekku, and Shaak trills back, just as deeply pleased.

"Shmi Skywalker, may I introduce Knight Coorah Arkona, my hunt-daughter. Knight Arkona, i am honored to present my Padawan Learner, Shmi Skywalker." Shaak Ti says warmly.

Coorah's eyes gleam. "Padawan Skywalkers reputation precedes her. Well done." The togruta knight grins, far less reserved in nature than Shaak Ti.

"Hunt-Mother, Padawan Skywalker, may I present Ahsaia Rasa, my Padawan Learner and my Hunt-Daughter."

The younger togruta is very tall for her age, nearly on par with her master, though she cannot be more than sixteen, and she looksup to the sky as if, perhaps, she needs to gather strength to deal with her masters regard. The stripes on her lekku and montrals are a muted blue-grey, and her eyes are a vivid teal, contrasting sharply with her orange and white skin.

"Only if I am successful, Master." The girl says evenly.

" I have none of your reservations." Her master quips.

" They aren't reservations." Padawan Rasa replies flatly. " They are realistic logical assumptions."

"Do you see what i am dealing with?" Knight Arkona implores her old hunt-mother.

Padawan Ahsaia Rasa, over her masters shoulder, is giving Shaak Ti an exasperated look that asks exactly the same question.

Carefully, Shaak Ti does _not_ smile. "Oh, yes. I see what we're dealing with."

 


	19. Chapter 19

“You _do_ know the obvious solution, don’t you?” Tsui asks, perched in front of Obi-Wan with his arms wrapped around his knees, upon which his chin was propped.

Obi-Wan looks back at his friend mulishly, lightsaber parts scattered around him on the stone square of the courtyard he was sitting in, a triangle fountain burbling and misting softly to their left, and berry-laden bushes creeping over a low stone wall surrounding the pad on the sunny side of the Court. “It’s a ridiculous solution.” Obi-Wan replies, keeping his voice low in deference to the culture, even though they are the only two present.

“Why?” Tsui questions simply, peering at Obi-Wan with wide-open green eyes, in a manner most would find disconcerting. Obi-Wan is used to it.

“Because I’m a _padawan_.” Obi-Wan says. “Having a dual-crystal blade is ridiculous, let alone a dual-crystal _adegan_ powered blade. I’m not adding another one.”

“Your first lightsaber was a dual-crystal.” Tsui points out.

“Technically,” Obi-Wan refutes. “It was one crystal split in halves, and look how well _that_ turned out.” Obi-Wan lifts his right hand, still in its tensile brace.

“You didn’t have a problem borrowing your master’s lightsaber, and his was dual-crystal.”

“That’s different.”

“Why?”

“It-“ Obi-Wan hesitates. “It just is. And that was _before_ he added the third crystal and the new focusing element.” And Obi-Wan still couldn’t believe how relaxed his master was about carrying a tightly leashed explosion on his belt. What was the point of such a high-powered blade?

Swallowing, Obi-Wan looks down at his hand, and his brace, and the pieces littering the ground. He knew what the point was, what they were up against, what they were so terribly ill prepared for.

 _The Sith_.

He shivers lightly, a chill pressing down his spine and pooling in his stomach, like needles of ice. He clenches and unclenches his hand, making the bones ache.

He knows Tsui is probably right. The obvious solution to balancing his Adegans was to separate them with a third crystal, the blue crystal which survived his first saber. Obi-Wan knows that, and his master probably knows that as well, but never pressed the issue. Obi-Wan can’t decide if it was a test to see if Obi-Wan himself would figure it out, or a kindness of patience, waiting until Obi-Wan was _ready_ to figure it out.

Sighing, Obi-Wan reluctantly fishes his kyber crystal out of his satchel, the concentration of the Force around it like a mist against his fingertips and so unlike the sense of _movement-music-intent_ that came from his Adegans.

He sets it on the stone in front of him and takes his yellow adegan off its perch on his knee and sets it down beside it. His sense of it in the Force lenses like a flare, its elusive, teasing call swelling almost experimentally next to the foci that was a kyber crystal before quieting again, content. Obi-Wan shares a look with Tsui, who nods encouragingly.

Obi-Wan picks up his green adegan, which pulses against his grasp and seems to soak into his skin, drumming to the beat of his heart, and sets it down on the other side of the blue kyber. It sparks, and Obi-Wan flinches.

There are small, jolting snaps in the force, like electric static and sap popping in fire. Obi-Wan tries to separate them and gets stung for his effort, the discordance in the Force drilling inside his skull, spinning his senses sickenly-

 _Stop it_!

Obi-Wan grinds his teeth and claps his hands down over the crystals, trying to contain them. Tsui winces and whimpers, and Obi-Wan realizes that he broadcast that, and he broadcast it _loudly_. Tsui may not have shields up for him to batter against, but he can still _deafen_ the other boy.

“Sorry.” Obi-Wan apologises, and Tsui nods, rubbing at his skull.

Beneath his hands, his crystals thrum warmly, and there is a sense of chastised slinking to both of them, one deep and pressing into him like a sorry hug, and the other hesitantly drifting around him, testing the waters as it attempts to reach out.

Obi-Wan closes his eyes and reaches back, to both of them, and for a moment, there is another sickening sense of displacement, before they slowly thread together through him, a drum-beat war-chant slowly falling into tune with an airy lullaby, meeting somewhere in the middle in a harmonic that just _feels_ …

 _Rain soaks into his hair and water runs over his feet, all of it sparking in sunshine, and he is standing on a precipice, on the bold of edge of_ everything _–_

_if he takes a breath, if he takes a step –_

_leaps –_

_there is a storm waiting at his fingertips, and he’d simply…_

_Become._

Obi-Wan gasps, his fingers curling around hard, refractive crystal, and he feels…illuminated, energized, _focused_ , as if every aspect of himself has sharpened and intensified with clarity of purpose.

“Woah.” Tsui blinks, looking stunned and slightly overwhelmed. “What did you just do?”

“I just…” Obi-Wan blinks back, just as stunned, every element on his awareness singing. “Brought them together. Balanced them.” Obi-Wan says numbly, carefully unwinding his fingers from the crystals, letting them roll back onto the stone, their previous discord evaporated, and now they pulled gravity towards each other, _trying_ to fall together.

 _‘Padawan?’_ Master Ben reaches for him, down their bond, concerned and then slightly amused.

‘ _Working on my lightsaber, Master.’_ Obi-Wan sends back, sheepishness and embarrassment creeping up, wondering how many people felt and heard that. ‘ _I’m making progress_.’

‘ _I can tell_.’ His master seems to laugh, and Obi-Wan sends back his disgruntlement at being laughed at, which, of course, only earns him more amusement.

~*~

The village had decided to host a single well-wish feast for both Ashaia’s coming-of-age and for the engaged couple, one week prior to the wedding, and the evening before Ashaia was to set out to hunt. Her harvest was to be their wedding feast. This, they decided, would reflect the best fortunes all around.

Ashaia, however, had turned nearly yellow at the prospect.

“It is the trial of the hunt to prove one can rely on themselves and provide for their community. Do you think it is any less vital if it were not a wedding depending on you?” Coorah counsels her hunt-daughter, and Shmi takes special note of how Knight Arkona differs in her manner between caring for her padawan and caring for her hunt-daughter.

They have traded their robes for traditional Shili fashion, which for Ahsaia involves a ceremonial headdress laden with glass beads that glimmered in the sun. To be fair, she was handling the constant well-wishes and unsolicited advice from the village far better than the engaged couple, who were also clad ceremonially. Shmi had yet to see the one young Togruta without a maroon blush on his face, though he smiled gamely enough for all the teasing. His partner, on the other hand, did not blush so easily, but did tend to abruptly walk away from the more mortifying conversations with less and less reasonable excuses, which earned the other even more teasing.

Then again, Ahsaia’s advice tended towards life-wisdoms and the difference between being a girl and being a woman and recipes and survival tips, whereas the engages pair tended to receive relationship advice and more...personal anecdotes, regarding how one establishes a good relationship and household.

Shaak Ti was often pulled away by the village elders to coordinate the wedding ceremony, as she would be professing the union, and she had no small amount of private conversations with members of the community regarding said union. Shmi was slightly off-put at how much input the community seemed to have in the affair.

Marriage among the Amavikka was private and often held in secret, a vow made between souls by blood and water, under the light of Ar-Amu and sworn only before the desert.

But among the Togruta, any concerns of the match were brought to the professor of the union, who would counsel the couple before their final vows, and, if circumstances were dire, break the union if necessary, or announce a postponement.

“Not all matches are made wisely or in good faith, Shmi.” Shaak Ti tells her somberly, in private, when she asks. “And not all matches are brought together willingly.”

Among slaves, Shmi knew this to be true. There were, after all, a thousand ways to be enslaved. She just hadn’t considered it to be something that happened among free people also.

“Why?”

“For money. For political gain. For family honor.” Shaak Ti shrugs, spreading her hands at the many reasons, few of which she herself found reasonable.

“But it is…they are giving their life away.” Shmi protests. “Or their children’s life away.”

“Few love their families as deeply as you do, Shmi Skywalker, and even less so when those who are ‘family’ are not so by blood.” Shaak sighs. “They do not think it is more valuable than credits or power.”

Shmi seethes quietly at that, her spirit burning against injustice and immorality.

“It is why the practice exists, Shmi, and why we, as Jedi, are often entrusted with it.” Shaak Ti says. “Which is why you should _pay more attention_. This is a role that will be yours when I get around to knighting you.”

Shmi grumbles a bit at that, and begrudgingly returns to her assigned studies on marriage practices and ceremonies throughout the galaxy, annotated and updated by various Jedi throughout the years, which included many helpful notes and warnings in the margins.

When she was not studying or shadowing her Jedi Master, Shmi – with Anakin and Jax underfoot – volunteered her assistance throughout the village as preparations were made, which sometimes meant spending a day walking fields and picking wildflowers or gathering herbs, and sometimes meant spending hours tending a public oven, shelling nuts, drying fruit, and kneading dough and minding the baking for the well-wish feast.

Ahsaia had several small tasks and rites to complete leading up to her solo hunt, and her Hunt-Mother, who never faltered in her presence, tended to become a jittery tower of stress when her Hunt-Daughter was occupied.

Ahsaia herself didn’t seem to display nerves so much as she displayed resignation, and, at times, a sense of saddened defeat.

“I’m not the warrior my master is.” She confessed one night, helping Shmi scrub clay and paint off Jax and Anakin, who had been far too indulged by some of the artists around the village. “Or the naturalist Togrtua pride themselves on being. What do I know of hunting? I’m a _slicer_. Code and logical equations and problem sets, that’s what I’m agood at. Master Sinube says I’d make a good cyber-investigator. I just…I don’t want to disappoint my master. I don’t – I don’t want to disappoint myself either. I thought it wouldn’t…it’s so far out of my element, I thought I wouldn’t care so much but it’s….” The young woman shakes, and Anakin, who has been handling his scrubbing and their conversation with quiet grace, turns and hugs her, oblivious to the fact that he is dripping wet and covered in bubbles. Ahsaia hitches a chuckle and wipes at her eyes before attacking his feet with the sponge, eliciting a squeal and splash that catches all of them. Jax huffs, swiping water and suds off his face, and looks up at Shmi with a pout. “It’s part of my culture, my people and…it’s so _arbitrary_!” She rages. “Who decided that killing an animal somehow changed you from a child to an adult? It’s so _stupid_ , but I still don’t want to _fail_.”

“I do not understand the hunt.” Shmi says. “But I understand what it represents. You are taking life into your hands. Your own, to prove that you can survive the wilderness on the skills and knowledge you possess. The life of your prey, which is no small responsibility. The life of your people, who look to you to provide for them. This is a bountiful world, Ahsaia Rasa, but there are many where what you can pry from the land is the difference between life and a death by hunger.” This Shmi understood – the deep desert, beyond Depur, was one such place.

“That’s what my master says.” Ahsaia sighs, flipping a squirming Anakin around to pin him better, and so he can’t kick her when she scrubs the arch of his foot. “I know that – I think I might even understand it, sometimes, but I just… I don’t know if I can _do_ it.”

“No one does.” Shmi says, having faced such a test herself long ago, and over, and over, and over. “Until they do.”


	20. Chapter 20

‘ – _in mind we have to allow time for the more remote clans to make their way to the Gathering_.’ Advocate Wes projects animatedly, and Ben finds it amusing how they enunciate with their hands even for mind-speech. ‘ _Response has been unexpectedly overwhelming_.’

‘ _I would not have believed that such a clannish people would be so open to sending a child of theirs off with the Jedi, regardless of it being such a long-standing tradition_.’ Ben emotes, trying to decide if he likes the tea they’ve been served or not. It’s more a cider than a tea, really, and sweetened rather than spiced. Given the constant chill winds, however, he does understand the appeal.

‘ _They aren’t, Master Jedi_.’ Advocate Wes replies gamely, causing the rest of their part to perk up with confused interest. ‘ _They are drawn, however, by the prospect of the Contest, and eager to either participate or observe_.’

‘ _Contest_?’ Obi-Wan asks, glancing between his master and Master Yaddle, who is looking off to the side as if perhaps there was something she had forgotten.

Advocate Wes looks between them all with some small grasp of their misunderstanding. ‘ _No Clan will just hand over a babe. You must prove your worth to raise it well. In traditional adoption, this is done by providing a gift of goods to the Laird of the babe’s clan, displaying the dwelling to the Laird and to any contestors, and then…well, partially to prove ones worth as a guardian and mostly to entertain, performing in a trial by combat to be judged by the Laird_.’

The Jedi stare at the advocate, who blinks a few times, still smiling politely, and continues.

‘ _As you are Jedi, the former two rites are impractical and assumed to be worthy, but the latter…well_ ….’ Advocate Wes shrugs lightly, mentally as well as physically. ‘ _To test oneself against a Jedi is a matter of honor and pride.’_

‘ _Foolish, such matters are, if gamble an innocents life for them, you do_.’ Yaddle radiates disapproval, equally matched by her counterparts over concern of the children so callously put forth to be fought over.

‘ _We may not hold much to outsiders, Master Yaddle_ ,’ Advocate Wes replies, the edges of his mind a bit sharp in offense. ‘ _But we do respect the ways of the Jedi. You offer a good life, one of just service. Those are no trifles among our people_.’

‘ _Um…is that really fair_?’ Tsui puts forth. ‘ _Master Yaddle has four hundred years of experience and Master Naasade is one of the premier combatants in our Temple_.’

‘ _They won’t be the ones in Contest_.’ Advocate Wes responds with puzzlement. ‘ _Tradition is that it is the one come to make the claim for the child that performs in Contest, and that claim belongs to Padawan Kenobi._ ’

Obi-Wan’s shocked surprise rings through the room. ‘ _What_?’

Advocate Wes lifts a brow. ‘ _Clannish people_.’ He reminds them. ‘ _We keep to our own_.’

Obi-Wan’s mouth is slightly parted in surprise, or protest, and he turns a hard look on Ben. Ben offers a hard look back, because he certainly hadn’t known that either. As one, they turn on Yaddle, whose ears fold slightly.

‘ _Claim you cannot do this, will you_?’ How she manages to grumble through sheer imagery-intent is unfair.

‘ _I think_ ,’ Obi-Wan projects, ‘ _I need to be informed of what exactly will be required of me. Rules and etiquette, at least_.’ He looks to Advocate Wes, who nods.

‘ _Of course_.’ Advocate Wes’s pleasure at the prospect shines through his mental intent. ‘ _To be fair to you, I believe most claimants from your Order are older when they come to collect their heirs. Some Clans will try and take advantage, but most will choose their champions based upon who they deem will be your most equal_.’ There is an impression of age against youth, of build and skills-in-training.

Ben watches Obi-Wan’s expression, as his padawan presses down a smile and radiates a place _calm-serenity_ that he so rarely ever actually feels. ‘ _May their judgement be fair_.’ He projects crisply, and Ben prods at the smirk he can feel through their bond. Obi-Wan offers him an innocent look.

‘ _You should give them a little warning, Padawan_.’ Ben cautions, threading his thoughts down the bond, keeping them just between the two of them. ‘ _No one will love you for humiliating someone they chose as an honorable opponent_.’

‘ _I wouldn’t_ humiliate _the honorable ones_.’ Obi-Wan protests lightly, a flickering echo of Ben leading skilled but still-improving opponents around the ring before dashing their victory on his mind. ‘ _There is honor in being defeated by a skilled opponent, if you conduct yourself well_.’

Ben concedes the point, but still lifts a warning brow.

‘ _Advocate Wes_ ,’ Obi-Wan sighs into the Force. ‘ _At your discretion, could you make other parties aware than I am a more adept combatant than they might assess me to be_.’

‘ _At my discretion_?’ Advocate Wes repeats, a knowing gleam in his eye and amused understanding wafting off his mind. ‘ _Certainly_.’

‘ _Jedi_?!’

They still instinctively tense when someone _shouts_ like that, but it is getting easier to yield to and let pass by, leading to less and less intense headaches.

Ben gets one look at the woman marching towards them in a full pleated kilt with a peace-bound laser-edged dagger buckled to her boot, denoting her to be a Laird, with a long fall of gleaming rose gold hair braided away from her face and felt his blood run cold. He turns his face away, fingers tracing the hem of his hood and painfully grateful that no one had taken offense to his wearing it up all the time, shadowing his face.

Advocate Wes steps away, hands out-held to fend off any untoward behavior against those in his charge, and the woman comes to a sharp halt to address him.

“Master?” Obi-Wan whispers in concern, and Ben fumbles to set his teacup down and reached across the table to grasp his padawans hand lightly.

‘ _You’ll see._ ’ He sends quietly, drawing as much of himself inward as he dared.

“Masters and Padawans Jedi.” Advocate Wes returns to them, the woman beside him. “May I present the Laird Obi-Vell Kenobi.”

Ben retakes his teacup, for something to busy his hands with, and watches his Padawan get up stiffly, uncertainty drawn into every line of his body. The woman searches his face, which a few years from now will be nearly identical to her own, and seems to take great constraint to hold herself still.

She’s not that old, Ben notices. Hardly any older than Ben was at his knighting, and certainly not as old as one with the title Laird should be, if Ben understands the cultural role correctly-

There is no making sense of what spills out of her in a flash flood of emotion, no coherent thought to follow just…. _love-memory-sorrow-pain-pride-you-were-my-little-brother-and-I-gave-you-up-and-look-at-you-now_ -

Obi-Wan staggers under the crushing mental onslaught she unleashed on him, and Advocate Wes looks appalled at Laird Kenobi, which suggests that she has in fact just been exceedingly improper.

‘ _Control yourself_!’ Advocate Wes scolds, stepping between her and the Jedi once more, and Ben rises and moves around the table to support Obi-Wan, and he focuses on that, on _Obi-Wan_ meeting _Obi-Wan’s sister_ , because that isn’t Ben’s life and he shouldn’t – this is _not_ about _him_ , and if he can hold onto that-

Obi-Wan leans into him faintly, one hand pressed to his brow against a headache that stings and slowly slides away, his presence in the Force shaken to the core.

‘You _gave me up_?’ Obi-Wan projects, after a minute or two in tense silence, while Yaddle subtly pulls on the Force, dispersing the emotional backlash and drawing on the ambient energy of the Court, which is smooth and flowing, if noisy, like a river and very unlike the _calm-brimming-light_ that flowed through the Jedi Temple.

Obi-Wan is still half-obscured by Ben, as Obi-Vell is still half-blocked by Advocate Wes.

She stares at him, with bright grey-green eyes, her chest heaving slightly as she forced herself to calm in the manner of one who is not trained in doing such a thing.

‘ _There was…a blood feud_.’ She project, straining to hold onto intent and not send memory, though some slip through anyways, vague flashes of plasma-scorched walls and burning fields in the rain, and sobbing. ‘ _Our clan against another. What was hostility turned into outright violence and-_ ’ a blurry face that might have been their fathers, lowering her into the empty engine compartment of a disused grav-harvester, another child squashed in beside her, and a babe in her arms wrapped in cloth to muffle the cries. Darkness, and the burning lines of connection, of _clan-family-love-safety_ snapping and snuffing out, and years later that is still her nightmare. _‘-our family died. We were a small clan to begin with, and there wasn’t much left by the time the Court reached us, and their Jedi visitor with them_.’

A miserable drizzling mist, walking through a line of broken houses and ruined crops, staggering after a green-and-white clad official coaxing too few survivors from their hiding places, mostly children and elders. There were no bodies. The Court had seen to them, but the yawning silence where the bonds should have been, protecting them, guiding them, soothing their fear and their need – no one could blind her from that cruel reality.

‘ _I was just a child myself. I knew the Clan had decided to try and rebuild, rather than disband, and I knew…I heard the adults arguing with the Court, over how many children there were, but they wouldn’t give us up. I could look after myself_.’ She confesses, mental wounds bleeding. ‘ _I could look after Obi-Shei. He was old enough to live off ration-bars and tubers, but you were…_ ’ Days, in the dark, and cold, with all the light inside her head burning out. The babe screamed and screamed and screamed. And then he didn’t, and that was worse. ‘ _They wouldn’t give us up. Any of us. So I did_.’ Her face is as cold and still as stone, but she’s crying, and if her body matched her spirit, she would be bent to her knees with the grief of what had happened and what she had done, made ever more real by his standing before her now. ‘I _gave you up, rather than let you starve._ ’

‘ _Then you saved me_.’ Obi-Wan steps forward, insistent and burning with that insistence, his presence in the Force shimmering brightly. ‘ _I don’t blame you for that and if you feel like you need to be forgiven for it, then you_ are _forgiven_.’

‘ _I gave you up but I didn’t let you go_.’ Obi-Vell reaches for him, and Advocate Wes steps aside, letting them meet. ‘ _I should have reclaimed your name, and let the Jedi call you for themselves, but you were my little brother, and I couldn’t bear it_.’

Obi-Wan takes her hand in both of his, kind and slightly overwhelmed, but when he looks up – Ben marvels at him sometimes, at how brave he is in ways Ben himself never felt he ever managed to be.

‘ _So being stubborn and clingy runs in the family_?’ He projects cheekily, and in her surprise, she laughs. Obi-Wan’s smug cheek lasts exactly as long as it takes her to pull him into a crushing hug, and he squirms uncomfortably.

Ben catches his eye, and thinks again that his padawan is brave.

He’s also not nearly as sanguine about this entire encounter as he appears to be. Obi-Wan huffs, trying to breathe through his sisters hair, and Yaddle decides to intervene, at least gathering enough of Laird Kenobi’s attention that she is no longer smothering Ben’s student, who slips awkwardly out of her grasp and back to Ben’s side.

‘ _Are you alright_?’ Ben inquires, offering to guide him away for space and quiet. He certainly feels that he needs it, if his padawan does not.

‘ _I don’t think I am, master_.’ Obi-Wan confesses, glancing over the woman who was his sister again. ‘ _But shouldn’t I be? She gave me up to save me. I like my life. I don’t wish it were different. And I still feel_ …’

‘ _You’re allowed to feel, Obi-Wan_.’ Ben sighs, threading Obi-Wan’s unadorned padawan braid through his fingers. ‘ _It’s an unfortunate side-effect of being a person_.’

‘ _Person-hood is overrated_.’ Obi-Wan complains. ‘ _I’d rather be a tree. Just sunshine, water, and the Living Force._ ’

‘ _Some trees are_ also _people_.’ Ben points out unhelpfully.

‘ _Ugh_.’


	21. Chapter 21

There was always something very enriching to her senses to be among her own people again, to walk bare foot in the packed dust and watch firelight flicker off of colorful flags and lanterns strung between all the buildings, a joyous harmonic of sub-vocals reverberating off every energetic villager dragging tables and chairs out of houses, setting up art displays, and shooing younglings and sneaky teenlings away from the food for the feast until it was time. Somehwere, someone was singing loudly and off-key, a pack of children were running around shrieking with laughter, musicians and dancers were interrupted attempting to practice and tune their instruments. Festivity was the heart of her people, and though Shaak Ti was a quieter soul, it was something deeply needed from time to time.

“ _Marrat_.” Shmi calls, and Shaak Ti turns away from watching a trio of men argue about how to remove one particularly large table through a doorway not quite of a cooperative size, while someone’s mother observed them with a hand pressed over her mouth, eyes crinkling with laughter. She catches Shaak Ti’s eyes and hides her lips with her hand, mouthing what she finds so humorous.

‘ _The table comes apart_.’ She says, and grins in delight.

Shaak Ti grins back and turns to her padawan, and her grins spreads wider.

“Oh…. _Shmi_.” Shaak Ti delights, taking in the vision before her. Shmi has been harassed into Shili garb by a collective of young women her age, and the dress is banded with light pink, red, and white, loose sleeved and loose hemmed and loose collared, attempting to slip off her padawans shoulder and making the young mother look much more like a girl than a woman. Shmi has surrendered to it with grace, and the dress does suit her, particularly given that the days in the sun have turned her and her son’s complexions a golden nut brown, lightening Anakin’s hair back to a golden blonde. Jax’s skin had been less readily adaptable, and he was still pink with sunburn, though freckles were spreading wildly across his skin.

Someone, or likely several someone’s, had also indulged in the fact that Shmi had long locks of hair, and have woven what appears to be several bouquets worth of flowers and ribbons into it, adding to the girlish effect.

Trailing after he heels, the boys hair had also received similar treatment, and were both giggling in suger-fueled glee. “You too! You too!” Anakin bounded up to her, insistant, a slightly crumpled flower crown for her montrals in his hands.

“Why thank you, little Skywalker.” Shaak cooed, taking it and settling it on her montrals, though it took a moment to settle the twitchy sensitivity of the new sensation on her sensory organs.

“This is only a pre-celebration?” Shmi asks, stepping up to her and looking around with widened eyes at the glory of the splendor coming into being. “What will the actual wedding be like?”

“More ceremonial.” Shaak Ti says. “There is a structure to a wedding celebration that lacks quite the same explosion of energy as this. But any celebration is an excuse for a grand celebration among my people.”

Shmi nods, but her hands pluck at her dress, and her eyes rove the decorated tables and flags and the smell of roasting meat and pressed fruits that hangs in the air, and Shaak Ti realizes that this is beyond anything Shmi Skywalker has ever known. A wealth she must find frivolous and foreign. Shaak Ti takes her padawan’s hand, and Shmi startles slightly.

“It is alright to let yourself simply forget, for a moment, Shmi. Life is often difficult and filled with hardship, which makes the fervor of those moments of joy all the more intense.”

“I don’t mean to disparage your-“ Shmi says quietly, her hesitancy and a sad sense of shame creeping around her in the Force.

“Shmi.” Shaak Ti shakes her head and squeezes Shmi’s hand. “One day your people will be free. I want you to look at my people, to look at all the peoples we ever will meet, and I want you to learn from them. So that when your people are free, you can guide them, you can share your wisdom and experience with them, and let them know what it is possible to _do_ with their freedom. And if you resent us for the fact that we are free and your people are not…please understand that you are forgiven for that, though it is not something that needs forgiveness. You have every right to what you feel.”

Shmi swallows, and her presence in the Force reaches quietly for Shaak Ti’s, as if testing the truth of what she has said, and Shaak Ti lets her in, lets her race along Shaak Ti’s own feelings – her cheer and simple pleasant release for the festivity around them, her delight and understanding for her padawan, her amusement at the men trying to force the table through the door and the boys sneaking under the tables lined up down the street, attempting to sneak up upon the huntress guarding the sweet cakes- Shmi pauses, turning back to their surroundings, and frowns in her sons direction.

“Let him try.” Shaak Ti murmurs, and a moment later Anakin howls as he is swept up by strong Togurtua arms and flicked lightly on the nose before being dropped back down next to Jax, who had jumped out from under the table the moment Anakin had been snatched up, tugging on the huntress’ dress to get his friend put back down. Shmi sighs softly at their antics, and shares a nod with the huntress, who smiles fondly at the younglings as she shoos them off.

“Amu, Amu! We got this close!” Anakin pinches two fingers together, breathless, and Jax beams, slinging his arms around the other four-year old and grinning up at the adults.

“I saw.” Shmi replies dryly, and Shaak trills a laugh.

Coorah and Ahsaia make their appearance as the afternoon light turns golden with falling dusk, as does the engaged couple, all of them dressed in ceremonial regalia as the guests of honor and seated in the middle of the long line of tables.

Ahsaia looks rather uncomfortable in the tight leather lacings and beadwork of a traditional Shili huntress, so very different from the loose dresses or the layered tunics she was used to, but on the open plains she’ll discover its usefulness. No loose hems to snag on thorns or cacti fronds, hardened pads and braided cords that would muffle her heat-shape and protect her vulnerable throat and stomach, bracers for her forearms and knees, for crawling, crouching, or fending off minor pests, and though she may be uncomfortable for the display of skin, her natural-born camouflage was her best protection from other predators, an evolutionary trait specifically adapted for the colorful turu-grass and scrub. She had a knife strapped to her thigh, another to her ankle, and a long bladed spear resting beside her seat at the table.

“She will be alone for a week with only that?” Shmi question.

“She may return sooner, if her hunt is successful.” Shaak Ti replies, offering Coorah a supportive look as she radiates pride and a hovering worry in equal measure.

“What if there is no prey?” Shmi frowns.

“There is a bounty of fauna for the hunt this time of year, and even if there were not, there are other tasks that can be accomplished if one wishes to. Surviving alone in the wild for a week is in itself an accomplished task, but there are rare medicinal plants one can seek, if prey is scarce, or she could brave the water for a river-monster. In modern times, it is not a trial one can truly fail, unless they give up, or unless their solo hunt proves fatal.” Shaak Ti explains, lifting a hand to trace her akul fangs.

Shmi thinks about that, and while she thinks about it, a heady wine is passed along the tables, and Shaak Ti pours glasses for them both before passing it along.

“I understand that what one faces of themselves during the hunt is very personal.” Shmi says quietly, her curiosity a light whisper in the evenin air. “But will you tell me of it? A slave is not ever a child long, and coming of age has never been so ceremonial among my people.”

Shaak Ti looks at her padawan, her sharp dark eyes gleaming in the torch-light, her hair touseled with ribbons and flowers, and her chest swells with wistfulness and fondness for this young woman, who knows so much and so little, who treads so softly that one could so easily fail to realize how far she has come. “Shmi, there is nothing I would not tell you if you but wished to know it.” Shaak Ti says with feeling.

Surprised gratification sparkles through the Force, and for the first time, Shaak Ti sees her Padawan blush.

~*~

They hadn’t meditated. Ben had lead Obi-Wan back to the quarters they’d been given and had sat and watched while Obi-Wan paced, his emotions rolling like a tide through the room, roiling and shifting uncertainly as he thought and just let himself _feel_.

Then Obi-Wan had thrown himself down on the bench seat next to his master and leaned into Ben’s side, head bowed and fingers idly picking at the brace on his hand. Sadness, frustration, self-recrimination, guilt, worry and uncertainty shrouded the Force around them, and Ben understood where every single one of those emotions rooted from. It wasn’t as if he didn’t feel them too.

He brushed his hand up and down his padawans back, offering open reassurance and comfort as best he could, and Obi-Wan leaned into with a reckless sort of _need_ that Ben definitely understood far too well.

Time stretched ineffably, and eventually the red-haired padawan sighed deeply, scrubbing half-heartedly at his stinging eyes.

“Feel any better?” Ben asks, pausing his hand on the base of Obi-Wan neck.

“No.” Obi-Wan replies, tone bitter. “I keep going around and around in circles in my head. She’s a stranger but she’s my sister, and she gave me up but she had to and I wouldn’t trade my life but there are so many…I have a sister. And a brother. And they’re supposed to be my family but the Jedi are my family and _you’re_ my-“ Obi-Wan cuts himself off, biting his lip, and Ben squeezes the back of his neck fondly.

“I love you too, padawan.” Ben says.

“ _Master_!” Obi-Wan mutters, ears turning red. He scrubs his face again, this time partially to hide so he doesn’t have to look Ben in the face, and he takes a few deep, whooshing breathes.

“It doesn’t have to be either or, you know.” Ben tells him. “The heart is not so easily distinguished.”

After all, what was his heart but a study of contradiction? He loved the Jedi and he loved Mandalore, as conflicting as they were. He loved Anakin, and Anakin was… _Anakin_. He could hardly stand himself and yet here his padawan was, Obi-Wan Kenobi, and Ben did love him fiercely. There had been a thousand opposing forces in his life, and Ben had cleaved to all of them at one point or another. He’d been a sworn Peacekeeper but a fierce General. He’d befriended more than one of his enemies, some to better effect than others. He’d forsaken some of the people he adored, to his shame and regret. He’d clung desperately to the tenants of the Jedi Order as a High Councilor while overtly covering for the fact that his padawan blatantly did not.

His heart…his heart was a mess, actually. But there was wisdom to be found in the midst of disaster. Or at least, that’s what he chose to believe.

“But I feel like I miss something I don’t even _know_ and I don’t understand why.” Obi-Wan protests. “I’m _not_ one of them.”

“But you are by blood, if not by culture, and if fate had been different, you could have been.” Ben says reasonably, to his padawans disgruntlement. “And there are lifetimes of possibility in the things that could have been, and it is natural to dream of them, to wonder, even to crave. We rarely feel what we think we should feel, Obi-Wan, and there is nothing shameful in that.”

“But I’m a Jedi.” The boy says stubbornly. “I should be in control of my feelings.”

“ _That_ -“ Ben lifts a finger. “- is _not_ how that works. We can’t just _not_ feel something, not unless you delve into practices that destroy who you are, and I would never, ever want that for you. Not for anything, and certainly not for the fact that you can’t help but wonder what a different life would be like.”

Obi-Wan sighs, shuddering once. “But it makes me sad, and I don’t like it.”

More than sad, Ben thinks it makes his padawan feel lonely, and even scared, and Ben gives in to impulse and pulls the boy into a hug that Obi-Wan wraps himself into gratefully.

“I’m sorry for that.” Ben murmurs.

“So am _I_.” Obi-Wan mutters, aggrieved, emotions rising again as he buries his face against Ben’s arm. Ben lets his padawan hide from himself for awhile, until the tension in his body dissipates and he radiates tiredness, and then Ben hefts him up and moves him to the bed.

“Take a nap.” Ben says, lightly pushing him back down when he tries to get up. “You’ll feel better.” He tugs off Obi-Wan’s boots, and the teenling huffs in defeat before dragging a pillow down to scrunch under his chin.

In another life, Ben would have practically hissed at anyone who suggested he needed something like naps at that age, stubbornly determined to seem mature and capable enough to please Qui-Gon Jinn, and at twenty-four, he’d been gratefully crawling into his bed the moment Anakin finally succumbed. At thirty, he’d been dreaming of naps with wistful nostalgia and sometimes inadvertently taking them on his feet in a moment of quiet between battles, until some poor trooper startled him back into wakefulness.

Obi-Wan, who has been pushed to his limits by Ben’s aggressive methods of training, gives token protests to the idea of naps, but passes out far too readily to actually be opposed to them.

Ben sighs, brushing his hair back from his face before drawing his hood back up, and leaves his padawan to sleep without being disturbed by _Ben’s_ turbulent thoughts.

“Master….Nah-seed?”

Ben huffs in a breath, eyes falling shut for a beat, and turns, to see Laird Kenobi waiting for him.

“Nah-sah-day.” Ben corrects pleasantly, and bows. “Laird Kenobi, I’m afraid my padawan isn’t available at the moment.”

Her gaze flickers back to the door down the hall, and then return to him. ‘ _I was actually looking for you._ ’

Ben can feel his muscles tensing up, and considers her carefully, trying not to let the familiarity of her face unsettle him, nor the way his mind tries to soak in every detail of her existence.

‘ _Shall we walk_?’ He offers neutrally, a headache building for his efforts to draw in on himself and hide.

She falls into step beside him, just a few inches taller than he is, the loose waves of her rose-gold hair fluttering as he turns and her boots clicking against the tile floor. Ben’s soles have been softened so that his boots make far less distinct a sound.

‘ _I am informed you are….the one raising my brother_.’ She projects, her mental aura tense and hesitant and sharply focused. Her eyes study his profile, shadowed beneath his hood.

‘ _I am_.’ Ben replies, leaving it at that. He can feel her frustration build, a sort of authoritarian anger and wary constraint that almost makes his lips twitch. She has the personality of a leader, at least. A touch of possessiveness and curiosity and _wounded-hungry-wistfulness_ regarding Obi-Wan trickling through her thoughts.

 ‘ _What is his life like?_ ’ She inquires.

‘ _His life, or him_?’ Ben pauses, gesturing to make a turn at the next corridor.

‘ _His life_.’ She affirms insistently. ‘ _I want to learn of him for myself_.’

Ben strokes his beard, studying her profile, and receives a mental push-back of defiance and pride.


	22. Chapter 22

“My apprenticeship was not as adventurous as most seem to be.” Shaak Ti explains, taking a drink of wine that pools warmth in her belly. Music is playing, the engaged couple has been embarrassed beyond the point of looking each other in the eye, and Shaak Ti is not the only one telling stories tonight. “But what I could not earn through turbulent experience I believed I could force through determined study. And I was no different when it came to my hunt. I saw it as a way to prove that I was just as capable as any other in the field, that inexperienced did not mean unwise. Looking back, I rushed into it, insisting I was ready before I probably was. My master did not understand enough to counsel against it - it was my culture, not his - and my hunt-mother…She told me only later that she allowed it because she saw a fire in me, and she believed that either I must be allowed to feed it, or it would feed on me.” Shaak Ti sighs, and watches Jax offer one of the flowers in his hair to a shy togruta toddler.

She spears a cube of sweet-meat on a tine and swipes it through the fruit-sauce on her plate before popping it in her mouth. A tray of smoke-roasted lizard is passed around, and the togruta on either side of them approve of Shmi’s obvious pleasure as she takes some for herself and Anakin, and offers it to a skeptical Jax.

Given the prevalence of snake in the Tatooine diet, Shaak Ti wasn’t surprised.

“Truth be told, I was rather proud and fussy for my age, and I had no idea what I was getting into. It isn’t the obvious things that get to you in the field.” Shaak Ti continues, remembering her jittery excitement-nervousness on her own well-wish feast, the feel of the leather and beadwork foreign against her skin, but provoking a strangely elicited delight when she saw herself in it for the first time. She was slight for one of her people, but back then she had simply been outright small, and the sight reflected back at her had made her feel powerful and wild and not at all like a scrawny padawan with too-little experience. “One of the most shocking things I remember wasn’t sleeping rough in the trees for the first time, or falling down a ravine bristling with thorns. It was…walking away from civilization. With the exception of ships in hyperspace, and it is hardly an exception, given how close-quarters test social boundaries, I had never once in my life been so completely distant from anyone else.”

Shaak Ti can almost bring herself back there, in the moment, and shares the sense of it with her padawan. It was a very similar night, warm, with a light evening breeze, and a piercingly clear sky. Her hunt-mother had walked her to the end of the valley, pressed their brows together, and then stood as sentry as Shaak walked away, and there had been more terror in that act that in hunger, or cold, or sweat and filthy grime. Walking into the turu-grass, and feeling the people who had surrounded her fade like distant lights until it was just her, and the stars, and the whisper of dust-on-grass-on-wind. She had forced herself to keep walking, scolding herself for what felt like such a useless and ridiculous panic, and ended up in tears, still stumbling through the scrub, determined not to run back a failure, and worse, a coward.

She’d slept against a boulder that night, listening to something scrabble in the deep crags of stone, and spent hours the next morning curled into a ball, numb to the world as she reached and reached in the Force for people she did not find. If a rain hadn’t swept in, superseding her mental misery for a physical one and forcing her to move, she doesn’t know how long she would have stayed like that.

“In all my studying and practicing of basic survival skills, I hadn’t even considered what such isolation might be like.” Shaak Ti muses, taking another sip of wine and tearing a strip of meat off one of Shmi’s lizards, though her padawan swats her hand just as she does Anakin’s. Shaak trades her a gravy-baked prawn for it and is rewarded. “But you can’t stay paralyzed forever.” She says. “Eventually, I had to simply move on and bear it.”

“Pride and fussiness don’t get you much in the wild, let me tell you.” Shaak continues, remembering sweat and dust and wet, slippery clay and stinging gnats and her own sense of self-pitying despair over it. “But determination and humility do.” She resigned herself, eventually, to the grit and the itching, because hunger and thirst took over, and whining was not going to land her her dinner. “I think I taught _myself_ new swear words the first time I tried to crack open a cactus pod. For your information,” She says. “This cannot be done with a knife. The cactus pod in question only cracks once it’s been burned. Fire ecology.” Shaak Ti waves her two-tined fork, and Shmi tries to look appropriately sympathetic, but Shmi is a desert child, and Japoor pods have to be baked in a kiln before they can be peeled. It was a fact of life she knew as long as she had ever known anything.

“Which eventually lead me to braving the actual cactus tree. Which I did successfully.” Shaak Ti says. “Though I cut my fingers to ribbons skinning the cactus pads. I don’t think anything has ever tasted so sweet as that mushy goop when I shoveled it down with my fingers.” Some younger togruta giggle at the Jedi master, and Shaak Ti turns to them. “I was raised in a temple.” She shrugs. “How woefully naïve was I to believe that being a Jedi Padawan somehow rose me above a more menial life, but you have far more practical wisdom at your age than I did. I had rather an abundance of lofty ideals and no comprehension of how real life was actually lived.”

“But I learned.” Shaak Ti sighs. “And I am made better by it.” She bows to them, and half of them blush at her regard. She turns back to Shmi, who looks amused and quietly considerate, studying her master as she absorbs this past self of hers.

Shaak Ti can still remember the way her hands stung, and the juice dripping down her chin, and the jubilant sense of victory such a small accomplishment brought to her.

She hadn’t realized then the critical mistake she had made, but ultimately, she isn’t sure if it would have mattered in the end.

“A little more clear headed, I managed to spear a lizard on my dagger.” Not, she admits privately for Shmi to sense, on her first try, but after hours of false tries and a listless boredom, lying on sun-baked rocks, waiting for them to creep out. “Togruta, sadly, require a more carnivorous diet.”

The others, casually listening, nod in wise agreement with that.

“Because you have sharp teeth.” Anakin points out.

“Yes.” Shaak Ti agrees, flashing a grin that revealed said sharp teeth and earning his and Jax’s in turn.

“So I survived my first day alone,” Shaak Ti continues. “And refocused myself the next morning on my purpose, my hunt. Nothing too grand – I was proud, but not unreasonable, and my estimation of myself had dropped considerably in the span of a day. I had set my sights on a kiliope. There were herds in the area and their tall, spiring horns are well prized. Additionally, they were not very much bigger than me, and thus I was hoping not too difficult to pack back to the village. What I did not know was that though I was hunting kiliope, an akul had caught my scent, and was hunting _me_.”

She’d been unnerved when the chirping insects had gone quiet, but hadn’t been certain as to why – was it her? Was it the time of day? Was it simply something they did?

“My prey sensed it before I did, and as they fled, I followed, deeper into the savannah. Which in some ways I am grateful for – had I led it back to any people, it would have been devastating.”

It had to have been prowling after her for hours before the wind changed, and something in the Force reached past her own anger and desperation at the prey getting ever farther from reach and she had looked in just the right direction to see it’s fur briefly revealed among the grass.

“When I saw it…my stomach dropped. I didn’t even feel afraid, at first, just sick, and struck dumb with the bone deep knowing that I _could not run_.”

It was the first lesson her parents had ever taught her, and one of the few she could remember.

“And then it moved and I could no longer see it, and I was stuck on a small bluff, just _waiting_. And panicking.” Shaak Ti takes another drink of wine, though it churns in her stomach at the recollection of that moment of primal desperation.

 _I cannot run. I cannot run. I cannot run_. She’d repeated it over and over to herself. _And where would I go? It has my scent. It will follow me_.

 _It will follow me_.

And Shaak Ti would never have allowed that. The village of her birth had been destroyed by such a monster. That is what the akul _did_. Shaak Ti understood that animals are not by nature evil, that their brutality as it seems to her is not _malice_ , but the akul…

Some enmities run too deep.

As a culture, the Togruta saw the Akul as their enemy. It was the villain in every story, the monster lurking in the dark, the face that evil wore when it walked the world.

It was a killer.

And that was a lesson that warriors among her people wrestled with, that was their great test of self and moral righteousness.

The Akul was a killer.

And so were they.

But Shaak Ti had not been, not yet. She had been a girl with a spear in her shaking hands and a soul deep knowledge that she was utterly and completely alone.

And being hunted.

“But you can’t stay paralyzed forever.” Shaak Ti repeats, letting her fingers tangle in the necklace of fangs, letting them bite into her grip.

~*~

~*~

‘ _He was raised in a place that tries to ensure that any individual from any one of a thousand upon a thousand cultures can feel at home._ ’ Ben projects, offering flashes of gardens in the Room of a Thousand Fountains, and the mis-matched culinary delights served in the Dining Halls, and the open rooms of the crèche, full of younglings of any species, build and color. The warrens of rooms and corridors for which no accurate map exists from the not-entirely well planned out expansion projects, the tall ceilings and solid walls, the open airy feel of the salles, the deep stacks of the Archives, the little tidbits and touches of an entire galaxy threaded inside a single monumental structure.

‘ _That seems chaotic_.’ Obi-Vell projects uncertainly.

‘ _Harmonic_.’ Ben corrects gently, though he lets her capture the wry twist he holds for the idea. ‘ _As a rule, Jedi don’t partake in chaos_.’

She feels doubtful.

‘ _His life is full of study and contemplation_.’ Ben continues, bitingly careful about what he lets her see, and how he lets her see it. ‘ _There has always been much asked of him, but he has never truly been left wanting for anything that the Jedi could provide_.’ A safe place to sleep. A decent meal. Clean clothes. The opportunity to learn and enrich himself. Companionship, compassion, and discipline.

‘ _He has quite the collection of friends and none of them from the same species_.’ Ben smiles, and lets her glimpse them through his eyes. Bant, Quinlan, Siri, Tsui, Sian, Luminara.

Shock and unease run through her, followed by a struggle for composure, a sense of self-censure. Ben lets his wince pass him by. The nebula was full of insular people. The specieism should not surprise him, and does not, though it makes him sad, as it would make Obi-Wan sad.

‘ _And his life with you_?’ She proposes, after a minute to reconcile what he has shown her.

‘ _I make his life difficult_.’ Ben projects, a touch ruefully, and a touch gleefully. It was a Master’s prerogative to make their Padawan’s life difficult. ‘ _I am a demanding and relentless teacher, and I push him to his limits so he can overcome them. I test his abilities, and his sensibilities, and his spirit and I don’t ever really stop, whether I intend to or not_.’

Anger, sharp and quick and she grab his arm, pulling him to a stop, and stares into his face, her entire being demanding an explanation, an excuse.

‘ _The life of a Jedi is not easy, and rarely do our rewards equal our sacrifices_.’ Ben tries to shape the essence of the Jedi for her. Duty. Mercy. Honor. ‘ _But it is fulfilling. We have purpose, and we know what that purpose is. We can feel it, with everything that we are, and few are given such certainty in their lives. We live to be kind, and just, and to protect those who cannot protect themselves, and there are some who spend their whole lives dreaming of and failing to answer that call. We aren’t perfect. We can fail. We can lose our way. But we try, and in trying, we make of ourselves everything we can be._ ’ His grief slips through and Ben grapples for it. She drops his arm, reeling against the scope of even a glimpse of it, tangled with love, dedication, and bitterness.

‘ _My life has been far less easy than most_.’ Ben apoligizes, and she shakes her head, refuting the necessity for an apology at all. The Laird Kenobi flushes slightly, embarrassed to have touched something so intimate without realizing it.

‘ _And my brothers life_?’ She demands. ‘ _Will it echo yours_?’

‘ _No_.’ Ben replies, warmed by the certainty of that fact. ‘ _It will not_. _He gets the benefit of all my mistakes with very few of the consequences_.’

Her lips part, and she reaches out to him, hesitating, and then determinedly, taking his hand in hers. Her hands are hard, in a different way than his, but equally worked in with callouses. She looks at him with sincerity bleeding through everything that she is.

‘ _Thank you_.’ She projects fiercely. ‘ _For raising him_.’ She lifts Ben’s hand, pressing her lips to his knuckles and now he feels embarrassed, a flush creeping up the back of his neck. ‘ _For giving him a good life._ ’

She lowers his hand and steps back, giving him space, no doubt having felt his discomfiture, and she stands proudly, resolute and valiant with her heart on display for all the things she wishes could have been that sadly never were. ‘ _For loving him_.’

She was afraid; a deep, gripping fear that had followed her every day, worried and pained by the idea that in giving him up, even to save his life, she had denied him love.

‘ _You didn’t_.’ Ben swears, on his padawans life _and_ on his own. ‘ _He was loved. He_ is _loved_.’


	23. Chapter 23

“Obscured in the turu-grasses, I could no longer see it, and, for a moment, it could no longer see me.” Shaak Ti says, as the togruta across the table from her refills her wine cup, and a plate of spicy grains is passed down, nearly colliding with a platter of sweet-meats being passed back up the row.

Shaak Ti remembers digging her fingers into the dirt, rocks biting at her fingernails. Her chest had been cold, but the rest of her had felt aflame, and every twist of the wind sent a fearful shiver down her spine. _Was that the akul? Was it upon her already_?

“I made my way rather hastily along the bluff, skidding into a ravine.” Shaak Ti says, the graceless tumble through the thorns a fuzzy memory. She remembers picking the thorns out of her skin after it was all said and done with much more clearly. “They are large beasts, the Akul.” Shaak Ti tells Shmi. “It was still some distance off, but it can eat away at that far faster than I can create it.”

Even a Togrtua in a flat sprint was no match, and they had the loping grace of a kiliope themselves. Even a Force-enhanced run would only get her so far. But reasoning didn’t overpower her instinct to flee, and she pushed herself for miles down that ravine, tearing through dry scrub and shearing stone recklessly.

“Not that I didn’t try.”

She takes another sip of wine. Down the table, someone makes a toast, or a joke, and Knight Arkona shakes with laughter, hiding her face in her hands. Her padawan looks gobsmacked, turning on her master in disbelief. Coorah shakes her head, trembling with laughter. The engaged couple have recomposed themselves enough to bear looking at each other, and they lean into each other to join in on teasing the poor girl.

“Night was falling quickly. It always does, on the plains.” Shaak Ti says, remembering the growing despair she felt as the sky leached of light, the ravine widening out into a dried riverbed of heavy boulders and water-worn pillars. “And I could not keep running. I went to ground like the sand-lizard, scurrying into a crack in the stones in the hopes that it might protect me. I’d pushed my limits too far to keep moving, and at that point…the line between wanting sleep and not caring if I died to get it was getting blurry.”

Fear only carried you so far, let alone a bleeding terror. The longer it lasts, the more used to it you get, the more other things creep in. Thirst. Sweat-heat. The way the cuts on her palms stung, let alone the thorns she scratched absently at. Annoyance. She’d crawled into the narrow crevice, stone scraping unkindly at her skin, pushing herself as deep into as she could get, growling in frustration when, at one point, she was certain she had gotten herself wedged and stuck. A bitter, terrorized frustration. A shrieking beetle had screamed at her for invading, and screamed and screamed and screamed, and even though she couldn’t keep her eyes open she wanted it dead.

“I slipped in and out of sleep, adrenaline jumping and crashing. And then everything around me – the screaming beetles, the birds, the lizards scurrying in the dust, it all went silent, and this time, I knew what that meant.”

The Akul had come for her. Shaak had scooted into a smaller and smaller space, grateful for once that she was so tiny among her people.

“I could hear it prowling it, great, whuffing breathes, snuffling around my hiding place.”

Those around her grow quieter, stiller, listening, rapt.

A grown Akul could rend an adult Togruta in half with a single bite. It could have swallowed her whole.

“But it could not reach me.” Shaak Ti swallows. “Though it tried. I could hear it scrabble at the crack I was hiding in, claws shearing against the stone, pawing out the dust. For hours.”

She had whimpered in terror, trilling a frightened keen in the back of her throat, humming to the tips of her montrals. There was no hiding now – it knew she was there. It could smell her. Taste her. Hear her thundering heartbeat just as clearly as she could.

“It snarled when it stopped.” Shaak Ti murmurs. She has nightmares, now, of nothing to do with the hunt. Nightmares of missions gone wrong, of terrible things that she has seen, or that could have happened but didn’t, and that sound, of all things, echoes in those dreams. A sound she could feel reverberating through her montrals, shivering down her lekku, rattling against her ribcage, deep and violent. “It stopped.” Shaak Ti repeated. “But it didn’t leave. It paced, and it waited for me.”

She was bleeding. That had been her mistake. She had cut herself peeling the cactus pads, and the Akul had smelled it miles downwind. She had been wounded prey, and it had given chase, and would give chase, until she sickened, or died, or it caught her.

Eventually, exhaustion had forced her to sleep, even with the beast prowling about, and she had woken with the bone-deep pain of someone crammed in a very tight space, to say nothing of what she had done to her muscles in her drastic bolt through the ravine.

“It was midmorning when I finally regained consciousness. I could see the heat-shimmer in the air, and the lizards were irritated that I was occupying their hiding place.”

She’d yelped when one had slipped through a hole in the stone and dropped right on her, sliding over her neck and being unceremoniously flung.

“I could hear it panting.” Shaak Ti murmurs. “I listened to it the entire morning, and in the afternoon, if fell asleep, basking in the sun. And I wasn’t brave enough to try and run for it then.”

She had fallen sleep too, almost lulled by the deep rhythm of its breath, lounging against the stone she was hiding beneath.

“An evening shower passed through, and that…” Shaak shakes her head. “I was bitterly exhausted, starving, and so thirsty by then, and the rain was only enough to dampen the stone in my hiding place.” She’d licked at the walls anyways, desperate for moisture. “And then I heard it lapping water from the puddles.” Soft drafts of a feline tongue, the sound of splashing making her throat burn. “I went straight passed envy and into a complete fury. It had crossed my mind, then, that I was going to die there, of thirst or exposure, hiding from a beast that was lapping water just a few paces from where I hid, and I was so ferociously _angry_.”

The Force had felt distant and elusive given her pulsing headache, and while she could have used it to lessen the sensation of hunger and thirst, she hadn’t then the training to use the Force to sustain her body in the absence of food and water.

“I was a Togrtua of Shili.” Shaak Ti says. “And a Jedi Padawan. And I was not going to die a coward.”

She had to all but claw her way out of the hole she’d wedged herself in, and staggered out of the crevise on trembling legs, dropping her spear from weak hands. Her body was spent, but her spirit was burning.

“It is dangerous to access the Force through emotion.” Shaak Ti says, catching Shmi’s gaze. “You run the risk of tapping into that emotion _within_ the Force, and what one soul can hold all the anger in the Galaxy? Or all the fear? Or all the joy? And not go mad. But I reached for nothing but myself in my passion, wrapping all my fury around me and gathering myself up, and I threw everything that I was at the monster.”

She’d dropped to her knees with the effort, and the Akul yowled and then screamed when it struck a pillar of stone, crumpling.

“It went down.” Shaak Ti pauses to take a bite, though her audience is enthralled. “And then it got back up.”

She’d sobbed when it moved, and rose, terrified and bitter and spent. It hissed and snarled, and could not bear weight on one powerful leg, limping and thrashing its tail as it came back for her.

She saw its face for the first time, and her breath caught. It had golden fur banded with red, to better blend into the turu-grass and the jungle shadows, and it had silver eyes. Silver eyes, just the same shade as her own.

“It snarled, and I snarled back at it.” A Togruta battle cry was a primal, harrowing sound, even from an adolescent, and the Akul had drawn its ears down.

She had made it flinch.

“ ‘This is not how I am going to die.’ I said. So I picked up my spear, and I forced myself to stand.” It had snarled again, and growled low in its throat, eyes watching her, fur bristling on end.

But she had made it flinch, and found within herself some unknown reserve of resolution, and her fear had bled away. One of them _would_ die. There had been no escaping that, but in that moment Shaak Ti stopped seeing herself as prey.

_You are a killer_. She had thought, silver eyes watching silver eyes. _And so am I_.

And she had become Huntress.

She had known, for the first time, that it was within her to kill, to take life into her own hands. For herself, for her people. She did not do so for sport, or pride, or out of fear. She would kill because she must, as a matter of survival, and the safety of all those who lived in dread of this monster, and she would not let that death be in vain. It was the way of her people to harvest everything that could be harvested. Pelt, meat, bones, all of it could be used, and all of it would be, and Shaak Ti would be as merciful as it was possible to be.

_If_ she won.

“I waited. Even wounded, an Akul will not easily let prey escape, and it lunged for me, with a heavy swipe of its razor claws.” Jax shrieks when Shaak swoops on him, and several togruta flinch in surprise. Shaak Ti grins in delight at the disgruntlement and embarrassment this causes. “It missed. Barely.” Shaak Ti says, settling the frightened youngling back in her lap, offering him a piece of a sweet cake. He glowers suspiciously at her and crosses his arms, grumpy. Shaak Ti pets his hair. “Its second swipe was not so neatly avoided. I still have the scars across my back. It threw me, high in the air, and I am not sure if it was the Force or my own natural instincts that allowed me to land so well from it.” She had landed on her feet – skidding and sliding – as opposed to snapping bones from the wicked fall. “I bolted. Everyone knows why you do not run from an Akul. It _will_ follow you. So it did.”

She hadn’t been able to hear how close it was over her own pulse drumming in her montrals, in tune with the pounding headache. She had been trilling a shriek just past the edge of her own hearing, and all her focus was on the ground in front of her, and the spear in her hands.

“I threw myself to a stop, planted my spear against a spur of buried stone, tucked low, and let it thunder over me. I didn’t even have the sense to pray.”

The Akul was heavy, large, and close at heel. It could not stop so quickly, and the spear was buried in its thick neck and chest.

“It struck and struck deep, but it was not fatal.” Shaak Ti continues, looking back of the stricken sense of failure she had felt, watching it thrash and writhe and snarl frothily, eyes tracking her as it rose again. “I had failed, for what I believe was for the last time, and I ran again, and this time…it was just to cling to one more moment of living, one more gasp of air, one more look at the sky, the stars beginning to fan out.”

It had been a thunder behind her, and then the thunder had crashed.

“Then I heard it fall behind me, and I stumbled with the tremor in the ground. It was a last push of strength – once I had slowed, my legs refused to support me, and I had to wobble to a stop. I stood still, for a long minute, just staring into the last burn of sunset, fire staining the clouds. And then I turned around. It had fallen.”

No more significant than a grassy knoll, a heap of fur, her spear a distinct line in an otherwise indistinct collapse.

“It cried.” Shmi says, closing her eyes briefly, because there were not words to describe that wounded howl, long and low and suffering. “And it cried.”

_Die, just die_. She’d pleaded into the night. And it didn’t.

“So I went back.” Shaak Ti says, still brushing Jax’s hair. She had had to crawl half the way, and stop when even a crawl was too much, and it just kept crying, the wail echoing haunting over the plains.

Guilt churns low in her belly, then and now, for how long it suffered because she simply did not have the strength.

Its breath had gurgled in quick, gasping rasps as she drew nearer, the span between its cries growing longer and longer as it weakened. It didn’t even have the strength left to swipe its claws or snarl, by the time she reached it.

She threads her fingers into Jax’s hair, remembering coarse fur.

“I had to pull the spear out.” Shaak Ti says quietly. “My dagger would not suffice for what had to be done.”

Down the table, an elder Hunter nods knowingly.

It could not fight her, but that agonized cry had been deafening, and she had stumbled over its limb in her shock of trying to escape the onslaught of sound and the intense wave of pain in the Force.

“I knew where to strike, just under the rib, to put my spear in its heart.” Shaak Ti says, though nothing was so simple as that. She’d been so sorrily afraid she wouldn’t have the power to push the spear through, and it had been watching her, one silver eye reflecting in starlight.

Shaak Ti had been caught in that gaze, of this great dread beast brought low. She’d been caught for a long time, before calm settled over her, and she took in deep, even breathes. Her trembling faded, her discomfort, her fear. The Force had returned to her, to lend her what she needed.

It hadn’t made a sound when she plunged the spear in, striking true. It shuddered, took three more gurgling breathes, and then went still.

And then all her calm had fled her, and Shaak Ti had collapsed to her knees and cried, cooling blood seeping through the dust, pooling against her skin.

“Actually doing so remains one of the most difficult things I have ever done.”

She had looked her Akul in the eye, fingers clenched painfully around the shaft of the spear, and for a moment had been suspended in time, yawning on the precipice between innocence and death.

And then she had stepped off.

Shmi holds Anakin carefully, watching her master with the flicker of candles shining off her dark eyes. She is not listening to the story Shaak Ti is telling, but to the one she is feeling, in her heart, laid open between them.

Shaak reaches out for her hand, and Shmi clasps it tightly.


	24. Chapter 24

“A fondness for stars, you have always had.” Yaddle comments, joining him on the broad ledge of the pinnacle roof. The city was not bright at night, paths and roadways defined by luminescent markers that glowed green, buildings wrapped in covered ledges that emitted a clarifying but not particularly brightening violet light. In the sky, the nebula expanded amber-red-blue, providing nearly enough light on its own to walk by, and the stars were far brighter but far fewer than most skies held, anything more distant than the nebula obscured by its glow.

“For most of my life, staring at the stars always made my mistakes feel smaller.” Ben replies with a huff. “And when that was taken from me too, staring at the stars reminded me that there was a debt I yet owed to the galaxy, and sometimes…guilt was the only thing that kept me from…” Ben lifts his hands, spreading them out to try and grasp an ingraspable burden, and lets them drop. “But sometimes,” He adds, tipping his head back. “Sometimes it’s just beautiful.”

The night sky in the Tatooine desert had been breathtaking no matter how long he looked, and it is one of the few, terribly few things he misses about that planet.

“Beautiful, it is.” Yaddle agrees. “And good for the spirit, beauty is.” She waddles over to him, settling herself down slowly at his side, grumbling as she got comfortable.

They sit in silence for awhile, watching the night sky.

“I didn’t know.” Ben finally confesses. “About my family, about my sister, any of it. I just – it shouldn’t matter now. That’s not really my life.”

“Lying to yourself, you are.” Yaddle chides. “Your life, it was. Changed, that is, but matter, it still does. Allowed to _feel_ it matters, you are.”

Ben snorts at the irony that she is giving him the same advice that he himself gave Obi-Wan. He supposes that doesn’t mean it isn’t any less true in his case.

“Sometimes I wish I could forget.” Ben murmurs.

“Hm?” Yaddle’s ears perk up.

“That I’m not actually an ex-Shadow Mandalorian Jedi.” He sighs. “I’m tired of looking into innocent eyes and seeing the ghosts of who they would have been, Yaddle. And _this_? I have a _sister_ , and she’s _here_ , and I don’t know all of what I might wish to pass between us, but it doesn’t matter, because it _can’t_. Because I am not the little boy she gave up to save. I am not her little brother. I am the man _raising_ her little brother.” Ben shakes his head. She had thanked him, and Ben wonders how differently that conversation would have been if it weren’t Ben standing as guardian, but Qui-Gon Jinn. If Obi-Wan weren’t the emboldened, unfailingly kind young man she had met, but a boy who had too oft faced rejection, who had thought he could just be better if he buried more and more of himself, if he pretended to be what everyone around him desired him to be. Who would have been civil and formal and distant with anyone claiming to be his blood, if only just to prove to his master that he would never, ever echo Xanatos du Crion. That his loyalty was unquestionable.

“Difficult, among the Jedi, is the topic of family.” Yaddle murmurs. “Pulled from our roots, we are. Planted in different soil. But thrive, do we? Unquestionable, that used to be. But always question, we should, if truth, we seek. A different answer, perhaps I would have for you, in another life, hm? But in this one…more, we are. More, we must be. Your purpose here, is that not?” Yaddle’s ears droop, her eyes going distant. “Your sister, claim, you cannot. But raising her little brother, you are, and family, that still is, yes? Not the relationship of the once-was, no, but a relationship, exist, may, if wish it, you do.”

Ben swallows tightly, looking down at his hands in his lap, and a faint smile touches his lips. “That almost sounded like you were encouraging attachment, Master Yaddle.” He teases half-heartedly.

“Swat you, I will, with my stick, if I must.” Yaddle grumbles. “Consider this wisdom, you will?”

“I do appreciate your council, Master Yaddle.” Ben murmurs contritely. “And…I will consider it.”

~*~

‘ _I still do not understand_.’ Obi-Vell relates, dubiously picking up the various parts and components Obi-Wan has strewn in and around his lap. ‘ _It is an object. A tool. How does it decide what it is to be?_ ’

Obi-Wan is beginning to understand that for most of his people, the Force is a latent talent almost singularly focused into their tele-empathic abilities. Nearly half also seem to experience lower-level prescience and forsight, but talents beyond that are far less common. Not unheard of, just unusual, and very select few have Obi-Wan’s strength.

A year ago, he would have believed he was simply set apart in his natural affinity, but now…Now he understands how deeply use of the Force affects one’s _ability_ to use the Force. All of his people could have his potential. They just don’t have the training.

And, strangely, they don’t have the cultural grasp. As a people, despite their inherent connection to it, the Force was a non-entity outside of their ability to communicate and bond with one another.

Obi-Wan found the idea jarring, to have all of this burning light inside him, and yet to live and barely delve into its shallowest edges… He shakes his head, and smiles at Laird Kenobi – at his older sister.

‘ _The Force provides_.’ He shrugs, trying to shape a shapeless concept. ‘ _I could try and build it how I want it to be, and perhaps that would work, and perhaps that would not. But if I center on myself, and I focus not on what I want, but what feels like it should be – then I will not build the lightsaber I want. I will build the lightsaber that I need_.’

‘ _This seems unnecessarily complicated_.’

‘ _It’s one of the most dangerous weapons in the galaxy_.’ Obi-Wan projects, rolling the knuckles on his right hand to feel them ache. ‘ _A little complexity is perhaps a good thing._ ’

She feels doubtful, but shrugs with indulgence.

‘ _No_.’ Mog projects loudly, and both Kenobi’s glance across the courtyard, where Tsui is trying to pry Mog from the sling the Aleen boy had made of his tabbards.

‘ _You will not be happy to have not moved all day_.’ Tsui argues reasonably, trying to grasp the squirming youngling as he twisted and turned, burrowing towards Tsui’s sleeve.

‘ _Cold, this place is_.’ Mog protests. ‘ _Move, I will not_!’

‘ _It is sunny here. The stones are warm_.” Tsui insists, twitching at the little stubby claws prodding his sides.

‘ _No_!’

Obi-Wan’s laugh startles out, and Tsui gives him a betrayed look. Obi-Wan offers his apology, but watching his friend all but dance about trying to get the small green youngling out of his tunics was by far too delightful to witness silently.

‘ _You will not adapt if you do not even attempt to adapt, Mog_!’ Obi-Wan projects, though he does feel sorry for the little being. The air, even in the sun, was cool by even Coruscant standards, and Mog came from a world far, far warmer than Coruscant.

‘ _Want to, I do not_.’ Mog whines. ‘ _Warm, I am_.’

Obi-Vell projects her humor brightly into the Force. She has seen his people before, but never a youngling, and she had been startled by his appearance when he poked his head from the basket Yaddle toted.

‘ _At least give Tsui a break, Mog_.’ Obi-Wan cajoles. ‘ _I will hold you – if you walk to me_.’

Tsui sends a flood of relief in Obi-Wan’s direction, and Mog is thoughtful for a minute.

He does not walk. He leaps from Tsui’s robes, dashes across the courtyard with shocking speed, and burrows himself right into Obi-Wan’s side. He shivers slightly. ‘ _Better_?’

‘ _Not yet_.’ Mog replies crankily, worming deeper between Obi-Wan’s robe and tunics until he is snuggled tightly.

Tsui bounces lightly on his toes and sheds his robe, folding it and placing it neatly on a low stone bench – that it still at height with his head – and proceeds to drop into a set of stretches Obi-Wan doesn’t quite recognize.

‘ _You wouldn’t_.’ Tsui remarks, sensing his curiosity. ‘ _They are from my homeworld, and not entirely compatible with the human skeletal structure_.’

Obi-Wan cocks his head. ‘ _I can see why_.’

From Obi-Vell, he gets a small sense of disquiet, quickly smothered in other emotions, and she takes her gaze away from Obi-Wan’s fellow padawan.

‘ _How many peoples are in the Nebula_?’ Obi-Wan inquires, trying to ignore the disappointment her discomfort with his friend produces, returning his focus to the lightsaber components.

‘ _Five. Or six, if you believe in the living vapors_.’ Obi-Vell projects, images flashing vaguely through her mind – her people, Yaddle’s people, blue-skinned, red-eyed people whose image blurs almost before she’s thought it, a cybernetic people whose real skin no one had ever seen, a primitive world not yet ready for contact, and some strange apparitions of elusive mists in an asteroid belt, who sang inside your head and lead ships astray. Obi-Vell firmly does not believe the last are real.

A focusing element keeps finding its way into Obi-Wan’s hand, and he stubbornly keeps putting it back.

Obi-Wan could feel the press of a mental conversation around the edge of his awareness, but he hadn’t realized how close the group was until a trio of tartan-clad men sauntered into the courtyard, two of them shoving the third forward, though he appeared to take it with good humor.

They don’t seem to notice Tsui, tiny as he was, until he projects a sense of ‘ _I am here’_ passively towards them.

Their reaction is – not pleasant.

The nearest one, practically on stop of Tsui already, stumbles back in surprise and – _revolt-disgust_. The same reaction as someone who has just found vermin in their kitchen.

The other two startle as well, and Tsui, pressing down a flash of _hurt-shy-scared_ , deftly picks himself up from his stretches to stand. Obi-Vell lurches to her feet with a flash of _worry-anger_ , as one of the others steps forward aggressively –

And stops, as surely as hitting a wall.

Tsui looks up in surprise, having radiated trepidation at the potential conflict, and glances back at Obi-Wan, who has raised a defensive hand to shield his friend with the Force.

‘- _damned is this- I can’t move_!’ The man emotes loudly.

‘ _You can’t move forward_.’ Obi-Wan projects calmly, sternly, still seated on the ground. ‘ _You are welcome to step back._ ’

The stranger pushes himself back, and Obi-Wan lowers his hand, grateful that the pressure in his head also eased. His effort to focus had instinctively drawn on his shields as well, and it had hurt.

‘ _Is it yours_?’ The one farthest from Obi-Wan asks skeptically, looking uneasily at Tsui.

‘ _I’m a person and I belong to no one_.’ Tsui projects, his mental presence as smooth and inscrutable as marble. ‘ _I am a Jedi_.’

The trio share a look, though the one – who had been pushed by his friends, eyes him speculatively, and then Obi-Wan.

‘ _You’re the one_.’ He projects, referring to the contest that more and more clans were arriving for by the hour. ‘ _You’re a child_.’ He tacks on irritably.

‘ _I am a Jedi_.’ Obi-Wan replies, in echo of Tsui, neither refuting nor accepting that assessment. ‘ _What are you_?’

‘ _A contestant_.’ The man replies, pale eyes narrowed under maroon brows. His gaze flickers between Obi-Wan and Obi-Vell, who is radiating cold disapproval and authority. ‘ _Laird Kenobi, my apologies. We did not notice you._ ’

‘ _That is not the correct apology_.’ Obi-Vell projects dismissively. The aggressive one bristles, but the one beside him winces with the effect of one who knows they are treading a very uncomfortable line. Obi-Wan gets the impression that he does not want Laird Kenobi bringing any complaint against them to _his_ Laird.

‘ _I didn’t know what you were_.’ The contestant turns to Tsui, feeling grudging but also uncomfortable with Tsui’s over-large eyes and strange skull.

Tsui blinks slowly, disconcertingly, back up at him and does not reply. The maroon-haired man hesitates, glancing between the three of them, feeling as if he were wincing internally.

‘ _He is also a child_.’ Laird Kenobi projects, and that sensation of wincing turns to actual shame against his personal honor.

‘ _We are Jedi Padawans_.’ Tsui and Obi-Wan refute in tandem, their thoughts tangling together into one mostly coherent message.

‘ _You are still half my age_.’ The contestant frames unhappily. ‘ _My Laird was told to be wary in selecting his combatant. We had assumed that meant you were.._.’ There is no polite or particular flattering way to finish that thought, though Obi-Wan catches the intent of it anyways. The dreadful benefit of direct mental communication. It was clear that he believed to even step onto the platform for a contest of hand-to-hand ability with someone half his age and three-quarters his height would be dishonorable.

Obi-Wan meets his gaze. ‘ _You are welcome, of course, to withdraw_.’ Obi-Wan projects, his pride stung. ‘ _Honorably_.’ He adds, a slow, slinking impression. The mans face colors.

‘ _You rude little bastard_.’

‘ _Our parents were married_.’ Obi-Vell’s mental presence cuts in dryly.

‘ _Our_?’ a chorus of three minds.

“Sons of Clan Het, may I introduce Jedi Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi.” Obi-Vell drawls. “My little brother.”

Dumbstruck dismay pierces through the courtyard, and Obi-Wan might have enjoyed it if the idea of being claimed that way didn’t settle so uneasily across his skin. It wasn’t wrong, the way her presence curled possessively around him, marking him hers, but it didn’t feel right either. She was his sister and he _wanted_ to know her – but he just didn’t yet.

‘ _Excuse me_.’ Obi-Wan shoves his lightsaber components back in his satchel and picks himself up off the ground, being sure to support Mog, curled into his side and deliberately ignoring everything, with one hand. ‘ _I suppose I shall see you at the contest. Or not._ ’

He hesitates when it comes to walking away from his sister, bows, and then tries not to feel too much of anything as he walks away. Tsui fetches his cloak and quickly follows.

“Obi, are you alright?” Tsui asks softly, once they’ve left the courtyard, and his sister’s loud confusion and confusing presence, behind.

“I’m confused.” Obi-Wan confesses. “And I rather didn’t want to see where that argument was going. Clan politics shouldn’t involve me.” He _wasn’t_ one of them.

“That’s reasonable.” Tsui assures him. “But thank you, for making sure he didn’t step on me.” _Or grab him_ , Obi-Wan sensed behind those words, as that had been what it looked like the aggressive one meant to do. Tsui was small, yes, but he rather disliked it when people took that as an excuse to treat him as small, as if it somehow made him weaker, less capable. He didn’t like being picked up. Not unless he chose to be.

“You’re always welcome, Tsui.” Obi-Wan says, nudging the younger boys shoulder. “Return the favor anytime.”

Tsui gives him a peering, narrow eyed look. Obi-Wan lifts a challenging brow, in a challenging quirk identical to his master’s.

“You’re Yaddle’s padawan.” Obi-Wan remarks. “Don’t even try and play as if you can’t change simple air density. Her grasp of minute manipulations is legendary.”

“But I’m a _new_ padawan.” Tsui drawls out.

Obi-Wan snorts, and Tsui looks down, trying to hide the sly lilt to his stretching smile.


	25. Chapter 25

In light of the sheer number of clans that sent envoys to the Court, the Administrar, who were the Court’s transient, elected leaders, restructured the contest into a more open exhibition. Half the envoys sent were not actually sent due to any request or curiosity of the Jedi (though many were – the Jedi only came once in a generation after all, and outsiders were so rare) ,but because their rivals were sent in response to the Jedi, and what one rival did, the other surely must also prove themselves to do.

Additionally, the Administrar’s did not consider it good faith to have Obi-Wan face over three dozen challengers. To appease the clans, it was decided that the contestants would face each other first, winner facing winner until only five remained, and those five would provide Obi-Wan his contest.

Five, they decided, because there were five younglings brought to the Court for the Jedi to select their adoptee from. The Administrar debated with Master Yaddle over what was to be done if none of those five passed the Jedi standards for Force Sensitivity, but Yaddle assured them that they need not worry on that account. She had then turned around and told Obi-Wan that _he_ would be responsible for their selection, after his Contest.

‘ _You will do well_.’ Obi-Vell assured him. ‘ _Even if you do not win, the Laird’s are not there to judge your prowess, but your strength of character and your display of skills which prove the Jedi worthy teachers_.’

Not that anyone here actually believed the Jedi were doubtful guardians. This was merely a spectacle of entertainment, as the Jedi had been claiming children from this planet for millennia.

‘ _I don’t want to dishonor anyone, especially not if they are going to associate my actions with you_.’ Obi-Wan looks at his sister, arms crossed. ‘ _They’ll not take it kindly if I do beat their best champions._ ’

‘ _The wise Lairds will not send their best. They will only send one who is worthy, because they are clever enough to avoid such embarrassments. The unwise Laird’s deserve the dishonor, for they did not choose their champion based on your skills, but upon their own pride_.’ Obi-Vell frowns worriedly down at him. ‘ _And I am sorry I made such a display over you. You are my brother, but you are a Jedi, and I had no right to drag you into Clan posturing_.’

There was a ringing edge of anticipation in the air, twined with both excitement and aggression, but Advocate Wes assured them that the Court had no problem dealing with the petty squabbles that accompanied a gathering such as this, and they policing untoward behavior quite strictly for the time.

Which on one hand made Obi-Wan feel upset to witness an Advocate break someones nose with a sonic baton to split up a fistfight, and on the other hand also involved watching a harried Advocate wrestle one child over their shoulder and another under their arm and drag them off to their respective clans with an air of resignment, which he found amusing.

“It’s not that I mind all of – this.” Obi-Wan gestures broadly to – everything outside their chamber. “It’s just that I mind that it all seems to be about _me_. It’s a lot.” He whines.

“Oh, padawan.” Master Ben smiles. “ _This_ -“ He copies Obi-Wan’s gesture. “This is exactly what Jedi do. And it’s not entirely about you, so much as it is about what you represent. We’ll have to take a few more diplomatic missions that actually result in diplomacy, and you’ll see.”

“Do any missions actually go as they’re meant to go?” Obi-Wan inquires dryly.

“You’d be surprised.” Ben remarks ruefully, and Obi-Wan rolls his eyes. His master sighs at the gesture, but doesn’t restart the argument as to whether or not the two of them together count as ‘polite company’.

Leading up to the day, walking the halls became an excersize in quelling his instincts, as nearly everyone not in green-and-white eyed him critically, sizing him up, and Obi-Wan could _feel_ their combative intent, and had to remind himself that he wasn’t about to get jumped, no matter how pircly the back of his neck felt. He took to carrying Mog with him, both for comfort and for something else to focus on. Mog seemed to take a certain fascination with colors, and there were plenty of mosaic’s, so Obi-Wan dutifully provided warmth while Mog watched light reflect off the colored tiles and chips with wide grey eyes.

‘ _Ready, you are_.’ Mog sends to him, in the midst of a long period of idle observation, and Obi-Wan has to blink and refocus, having been somewhat lost in a swirling mosaic, watching the light shift on the dust motes and make the ties gleam.

‘ _I am_.’ Obi-Wan smiles, resisting the urge to pet the youngling’s springy black hair. Master Ben had gotten himself bit doing that without thinking. Or asking.

‘ _Good_.’ Mog projects, with a lazy sort of contentment, and settles against Obi-Wan’s chest, resting in the crook of him arm.

Obi-Wan snorts faintly at him.

~*~

‘ _He is good, isn’t he_?’ Obi-Vell asks abruptly, pride warring with worry warring with the unknown.

Ben lifts brow, having been careful not to react as she strode through the milling spectators towards him, in formal coat and kilt, a braided sort of helm on her brow, and her hair elaborately braided down her back.

‘ _Arguably, he’s the best of his age in the Temple_.’ Ben replies, proud of that certain fact.

‘ _But better than them_?’ Obi-Vell demands, cutting her gaze to where the first two matches are taking place in tandem. The rules of the matches were simple; hand to hand combat, to first blood or to yield.

Traditionally, it was only to first blood, but Obi-Wan had been uncomfortable with that prospect, tradition or not, and the Administrar had added the addendum on the premise that if the slight teenling before them felt he could make his opponents yield, he was more than welcome to try.

There is a meaty crack, and the both of them cut their gazes back to the nearest match, where one contestant is reeling, clutching his broken nose as it spews blood. The other is a man not much shorter than Master Jinn, and more thickly built. Concisely, he is a beheamoth, and Ben can see the narrow disapproval on the faces of the Laird’s who were elected as judges.

‘ _I understand your concern_.’ Ben lays a hand against her arm carefully.

Obi-Vell studies him sharply, anger simmering through her at the mere idea that Obi-Wan would face such a poorly matched combatant. Her anger shifts, curls, wary curiosity creeping through. ‘ _You understand_.’ She reflects back at him. ‘ _But you don’t share it_.’

‘ _I’m less worried about how hurt_ he’ll _get than how much he’ll have to hurt his opponents._ ’ Ben turns to face her. ‘ _Obi-Wan is a capable fighter, and he has more than just my training to rely on. I trust his skills, even against a brute like that_. _But violence – committing violence – does him a different kind of harm_.’

She struggles with that concept, which went against her cultural ideas of battle-honor, and Ben feels sorry for it, for the divide it creates between them. She sees him and Obi-Wan as fighters, but fails to grasp the difference between a warrior and a peacekeeper. She equated the Jedi to the Advocates of the Court of Equal Voices, but they were not parallel entities. The Advocates were a legal authority, a police entity. The Jedi were a moral authority, a religious order, and their mandates were both more rigorous and yet less certain. But then, such was the way of faith.

Ben turns his attention back on the bouts. The contestants weren’t unskilled, by any means, but their style leaned more towards that of brawlers than of the martial discipline of the Jedi or the Mando’ad.

_At fourteen, would I have been good enough?_ He wonders. He wouldn’t have had the same training, particularly the mandalorian training, but keeping up with Qui-Gon had never been an easy feat, and even only a year into his apprenticeship he’d been pulling ahead of the curve in his combat abilities.

‘ _Are you alright_?’ Obi-Vell rests a hand on his arm, and Ben pulls out of his musings. She studies him, with her bright grey-green eyes, all passion and concern.

‘ _Judging myself for who I was at his age_.’ Ben shares with her honestly. ‘ _I wasn’t quite as good as he is_.’

She leaks exasperation, and clicks her tongue. ‘ _I thought Jedi were meant to be wise_.’ She teases. ‘ _It is good that your student is better. It proves you learned from your life. Enough to teach him what needed to be taught._ ’ She smiles, her face soft and fair. ‘ _He will do the same, and his student after him, and that is why the future holds hope. Because they are better than we were_.’

Ben swallows tightly, trying not to look taken away by her as a tremulous feeling unfurls in his chest. He takes her hand and presses a chaste kiss to the top of her knuckles before clasping his other hand over it.

She could not be his sister, but Yaddle was right. That did not mean that they are nothing to each other.

‘ _That was, I believe, exactly what I needed to hear_.’ Ben smiles gratefully, relief lifting the weight of his mood, and a blush colors her startled expression.

~*~

‘… _excuse me_?’ Obi-Wan pauses in the doorway, staring critically at whomever he just caught rifling through his and his masters things.

It was deemed less fair of him to see all the preceeding bouts because he would have an idea of his opponents style but they would have no idea of his, and so he had stayed on the upper levels of the Court, avoiding the Grand Hall were the contest was taking place, packed with tartan-clad envoys and polished Laird’s and as many of the local populace as could be accommodated.

He didn’t mind, but he had changed his mind about leaving his room to pace and instead decided that he might want to work on his lightsaber instead, came back, and found…an intruder.

They whip around, a tall blue-skinned, red-eyed near human with sharply cut dark blue hair in a foreign uniform.

“Leave.” They commanded. “I do not wish to speak to you.”

Obi-Wan narrows his eyes. “Those are my things you’re going through.” He points out, tone hard.

Red-on-red eyes widen slightly, though their face gives nothing away. “ _You_ are the Jedi.” They remark oddly.

Obi-Wan nods, if only barely, studying his intruder in quick assessment. He has the feeling that he was just mistaken for a native, given his looks, and he wonders if a native would have obeyed such a command, and why.

“You’ve been following us.” Obi-Wan says, having caught a glimpse of a similar being just before they left Yaddle’s planet.

“We were observing you.” They – she, possibly – corrected. “We did not wish to make contact.”

“Then why were you observing us?” Obi-Wan asks, keeping his tone polite and his body language non-threatening. There was a quiet warning in the Force, a still sense of waiting that warned him to be cautious, though he wasn’t in danger just yet.

She considers him with a proud tilt of her head, gaze flat and calculative. “It was my duty to do so.” She eventually replies.

Obi-Wan takes in again the martial style of her uniform, the trained strength he can see in his musculature, the sharp, precise cut of her hair; the fact that they were both here and back on Yaddle’s planet; the class of the unfamiliar ship he’d seen. All of it spoke of authority, resources, organization – a higher governmental power. “Have we done something wrong?” He inquires.

“Not yet. You simply entered our jurisdiction.” She replies curtly, her presence in the Force impassable.

Obi-Wan wants to keep asking, keep pressing, but he bites his tongue instead. These people – whoever they were and whoever they represented – were known in the nebula. He knew that. Obi-Vell had offered him a flicker of their existence and Yaddle had seemed unconcerned about their interacting with the Jedi’s escort. The Nebula was an insular place. It had it’s secrets, and he was not owed them.

“Would you like to watch the exhibition?” He offers instead, trying to be….diplomatic, with this unknown entity.

Her gaze shifts slightly, and that is all the more reaction offered. “We do not wish to make contact.” She repeats. Her gaze shifts to the side again. “It will be recorded.” She nods almost imperceptibly, as if in apology, and Obi-Wan _thinks_ that was a return attempt at diplomacy. Because if it wasn’t it was slightly unnerving for him to know.

“If you ever do, my name is Jedi Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi.” He offers, bowing. “You can offer my name as reference, if necessary.”

Her gaze narrows in consideration, and she nods. Obi-Wan glances down at his satchel, resting on the bed, and the parts she’s pulled out of it. His stomach turns sickly for a moment and a shiver runs down his spine, and the idea that she has had her hands on what would become his lightsaber. He was an _idiot_ for leaving it in his quarters.

“Is this a weapon?” She asks sharply, catching his look, if not the pallor of his face.

“I’m rebuilding my lightsaber.” Obi-Wan says flatly, cutting his gaze back up to hers. “Someone caused my last one to explode in my hand in an attempt to kill me.”

Her gaze flickers very briefly to the brace on his wrist and the mark across his cheek and he glares stonily when she meets his eyes again.

“I took scans of the components.” She reports, her voice somewhat cold at the implication. “ _Nothing_ more.” She pauses, and he can see a muscle tick in her jaw as she grinds her teeth before deciding what to do next. “I am Heda’riad’nuruodo of the Chiss, and you will tell no one of us. Does that suit, Jedi Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi?”

Obi-Wan, who has had the chance to take a breath or two to settle a reflexive fear and to reach out in the Force and feel the song of his crystals reaching back, nods. Adegans, his master had promised, were not like kyber. They could not be used against you.

“So long as you and your people present no danger to me and mine.” Obi-Wan swears.

“Then we will not see each other again.” She promises in turn, and a warning in the Force follows her out the door as he steps aside.

Obi-Wan watches the door close, and then turns and looks around the room, and feels utterly at a loss. “What the fuck?” He curses, since his master isn’t around to scold him for it, and moves to inspect anything she might have touched.

If nothing else, his mind was successfully taken off the exhibition taking place in the levels below him.


	26. Chapter 26

‘ _He’s broken the nose of every single one of his opponents_.’ Tsui projects unhappily to his master, as Obi-Wan performs a few warm up katas and his first opponent is revealed to be the oldest and largest of his five opponents, a beheamoth of a man with a heavy swing.

‘ _Brutal and effective, he is_.’ Yaddle comments. ‘ _Use well, he does, his natural advantages_.’

‘ _But why is he the first contestant_?’ Tsui asks, ill tempered for the judges decision of the line-up.

‘ _Well matched, he is not_.’ Yaddle analyzes the reserved looks on the Laird’s faces, the cool judgement in their eyes, and nods to herself. ‘ _Get him out of the way, they wish to_.’

‘ _But what if he breaks Obi-Wan’s nose_?’

‘ _Deter your friend, do you think that will_?’ Yaddle inquires curiously, turning to her young blue padawan. The insight of the young was a vastly underestimated perspective, and she had learned over all her many years to always mind it, for they could, in their own way, grasp what she for all her wisdom could not.

And sometimes, simply because it helped her learn how they saw the world, or the beings in it.

‘ _No_.’ Tsui retorts a little touchily. He is a reserved youngling, her padawan, but his feelings often ran deep, and she can sense the defensive admiration he holds for the other boy. ‘ _But his_ nose _will be_ broken _._ ’

‘ _Then hope, we shall, that appropriately dexterous, Padawan Kenobi is, and broken, his nose shall not be_.’

‘ _Yes, Master_.’ Tsui sighs down the bond between them, and Yaddle offers a soft reassurance that makes her Padawan duck his head shyly.

Obi-Wan approaches the mats laid over the marble floor. His opponent, of Clan Gasu, spots his direction and moves forward to join him. Kengasu’s bouts had all been quickly settled, and thus he was little fatigued. He eyes Padawan Kenobi up and down with a faint grimace – not a sneer, but a look of displeasure. He will do what he has been charged to do by his Laird, but there is little honor in setting out to do harm to one so young, whose face made them seem even more youthful.

Even the mental noise falls into a hush as they reach the main event, though curiosity and _pride-aggression-surprise_ ran freely, an emotional sort of static to the audience.

Padawan Kenobi looks very slight in just his undertunic and grey trousers, having divested himself of his shirt, tunic, tabbards and robe, smaller without the layers, softer looking. His mind, however, presses sharply back against the emotional static, as hard and gleaming as amber, as sharp as flint. His face is calm, his gaze focused.

It does not surprise Yaddle that the stance he falls into is Mandalorian. He is very much his master’s student, even beyond all else that bound them. His opponent hesitates to make the first move –which in previous bouts was followed shortly by the last.

Padawan Kenobi obliges him, and launches forward, feinting directly towards the man’s face. He jerks, but reflexively moves to both avoid the blow and counterattack, only to find his opponent already gone, the intended hit a deception entirely as the teen drove his heel down hard on the mans instep and then danced aside, shifting around his opponent, who turned to keep the teen in sight. The blow to his instep doesn’t appear to bother him.

Then Padawan Kenobi does it again. A feint, a sharp downward kick to his instep, and dancing steps away, trying to get behind him. Kengasu scowls harshly, and lunges after the boy, who ducks the first blow and rolls to drive himself beneath the second – and once more around to Kengasu’a back. Kengasu’s next attack is much more powerful, but also sloppier, a heavy, wide swing that never gets near the faster opponent, who dives inside it, drives al elbow into Kengasu’s diagram and another grinding heel into his instep, and slips away before he can be grappled. Now, now Kengasu is limping. His right side doesn’t bear his weight so well, and so he shifts his balance constantly as he turns, trying to keep Padawan Kenobi, who has pulled back and dances around him, in his sights and at his front. He’s getting angry, humiliated.

Padawan Kenobi is calm, his gaze focused.

Kangasu chases, lunging again, hands prepared to grab the teen if he bolts. His step falters slightly, as he is putting his weight down on his right foot, and his body position drops lower. Padawan Kenobi does not bolt. He plants his feet, leans in, and drives his fist into the other mans face.

There is a meaty, gritty snap as Kengasu’s nose breaks, and Yaddle can watch the musculature shudder ripple through Padawan Kenobi’s body. If she is not mistaken, he broke more than Kengasu’s nose. He draws back, drawing his fist low with a hiss, and Yaddle feels her ears twitch and lower, suspecting he may have cracked a knuckle or two. He had used his braced hand, still his dominant despite practice, and done it no favors. She shakes her head.

Kengasu staggers back a step, blood running down his front, looking and feeling both more upset than pained or angered. He is not a man unused to having his nose broken.

~*~

‘ _I thought you told me he was opposed to violence_.’ Obi-Vell remarks, the flavor of her thoughts shocked and impressed.

Ben lifts brow, frowning at her slightly. ‘ _My padawan has idealistic expectations – not unrealistic ones. There are very few ways to deal with an opponent such as that in a setting such as this without doing some damage. He could have attempted to subdue, but he has four other opponents to face and no certainty that Kengasu would have yielded_.’

‘ _He wouldn’t have. It is one thing to lose at first blood, but to yield_?’ Obi-Vell shakes her head, stirring her long rosy-gold braid. ‘ _His Laird would never have forgiven him, bastard that The Gasu is._ ’

‘ _Then there you have it_.’ Ben comments, eyeing the way his padawan carefully cradles and then stretches out his right hand, feeling the wince Obi-Wan doesn’t let himself show. Obi-Vell scowls thunderously, radiating her discontent.

‘ _Did you break it_?’ Ben projects between them, concerned.

‘ _I definitely cracked something. I think the phalange in my third finger fractured where it was broken before_.’ Obi-Wan reports sourly.

‘ _Marvelous_.’ Ben sighs tightly, stroking his beard in stress. ‘ _Healer Chias will be so pleased with you_.’

‘ _Please don’t remind me of that_.’

‘ _Do you need to stop_?’ Ben asks, concerned.

‘ _No. I’ll be more careful_.’ Obi-Wan promises, though Ben can feel an echo of his pain down the bond. ‘ _Besides, none of the rest look like they’re going to squish me like a bug_.’

‘ _If you’re certain_.’ Ben prods.

‘ _I am_.’ Obi-Wan catches his eye, nodding his affirmation, eyes lit with resolve, and Ben nods back.

~*~

Obi-Wan is not quite so certain of what he claimed to his master – his next opponent is a girl a few years his elder, on the cusp of adulthood, and while she hardly a few scant inches taller than him, her shoulders are powerfully built, and her hands and wrists tightly muscled and strong. She may not squish him like a bug, but she might be perfectly capable of cracking him in half.

‘ _Are you a baker_?’ Obi-Wan asks curiously, as she comes to stand beside him and they watch as the bloodied mats and switched out for clean ones.

‘ _A potter_.’ She replies, curious and far less close-off and dark-tempered than Kengasu. She is a Kenuru, according to the listing on the holodisplay.

Obi-Wan nods at that. Kneading clay would make for strong hands.

When they face each other, she does not hesitate, and almost has a grip on his ear by the time he gathers her intention and twists away. She smiles broadly at him as he puts a distance between them, and then she charges again. Obi-Wan steels himself and ducks his shoulder, pushing his shoulder right into her stomach with her charge and slamming her down. Even with the matts, which are some thickly braided textile, he feels his teeth rattle for the marble floor underneath.

They wrestle, and Obi-Wan quickly figures out that this is where she wanted to be, even winded as she is, and he has to be as slippery as he can be while they grapple. Obi-Wan manages to flip, only for her to flip them right back over again, and she gets two fistfuls of his undertunic and slams their heads together.

His vision goes white and his ears ring as his teeth compress.

She pulls off him and sort of slumps into sitting beside him, one hand lifted to press against her own head. Obi-Wan reaches up, and he can feel the wet split in his brow. It’s not much blood, but the rules don’t say it has to be much.

‘ _Please tell me you don’t do that a lot?_ ’ Obi-Wan sends to her, bravely trying to sit up. He snickers at him, and then flinches as her back protests from being thrown to the floor.

‘ _Did that to my brother once_.’ She flashes another broad smile, despite the wincing pain. ‘ _Set him straight enough._ ’

‘ _Consider me set_.’ Obi-Wan offers her the mental suggestion of a thumbs up. ‘ _Also concussed_.’

‘ _Nah_.’ She shakes her head and then immediately decides that was a bad idea. Her skull must be ringing, but Obi-Wan can’t tell past his own for a few more minutes at least. ‘ _You’ve got a damn hard head._ ’

‘ _Thank you_?’

‘ _Someone has to help me up_.’ She projects broadly, and a grinning man with a broken tooth and a similar broad smile lopes over to them.

‘ _Well done_.’ He congratulates them both, and then heaves his sister up to her feet.

Obi-Wan looks blearily towards where his master and sister should be standing and smiles blithely. His sister is wincing sympathetically, and his master is stroking his beard, looking… _feeling_ exasperated.

‘ _What_?’

‘ _Healer Chias_.’ His master projects. Obi-Wan groans, climbing back to his feet.

‘ _I asked you_ not _to remind me_.’ He whines.

~*~

The next match is more difficult. Padawan Kenobi’s opponent is of similar build, though taller. He is equally fast and physically powerful, and several years older, though one could debate the topic of experience, given Padawan Kenobi’s position as a padawan.

Kenolto and Padawan Kenobi dance back and forth for a few minutes, both striking minor blows. The older boy is fatigued from his earlier bouts, but his endurance is impressive. Yaddle puts a hand on Tsui’s shoulder, feeling the tension building in her padawan’s small frame. The audience was rapt, assessing, entertained by the unexpectedness of the first two bouts.

Kenobi manages to trap a hand, and his opponent lets him, and uses Padawan Kenobi’s leverage against him, drawing up a leg and hitting the boy with a powerful kick, breaking his hold and forcing his feet to leave the ground He lands on them, but skitters a stumble to get his balance back, clutching his stomach.

From the corner of her eye, she watched his master flinch.

The mood of the fight – wary, testing, waiting – shifts into sharp, aggressive focus and recognition. A corner of Padawan Kenobi’s mouth lifts, and Yaddle thinks, sometimes, there is _too_ much of his master in that boy. Naasade might have his scars and his demons, but in the fight, he carried a thrill with him that made other Jedi uneasy.

Yet Yaddle couldn’t blame him. No one who had ever seen him with a lightsaber in his hand could deny that there was a part of Naasade that simply seemed to _belong_ in battle. It is what made her believe that he was Mandalorian, in all the ways that mattered, where others of the High Council believed it was a merely a story he told, a convenient mask that could be unveiled.

Padawan Kenobi’s Mandalorian stance shifts into something less grounded and more uncertain – weaker, to the untrained eye – and Yaddle pinches her lips, eyes narrowing. Padawan Kenobi himself had put forward a formal restriction on his use of the Force, for honor and fairness, and while she did not doubt his honest intentions…

Younglings often got carried away with themselves.

‘ _Master, doesn’t that look like…ataru_?’ Tsui questions sharply, his tightly analytical mind flashing between comparisons.

A few more glancing blows and dodges, and then Padawan Kenobo leaps forward and then twists, throwing his body weight into the maneuver and sweeping out with a leg Kenolto barely dodges, dropping low and responding quickly with a reciprocal sweep of his legs, low to the ground, forcing the padawan back.

But once it’s started, it doesn’t stop, and while Kenolto is certainly agile, he is not nearly up to par with Padawan Kenobi’s athletic flexibility in combat, and eventually catches a knee to the rib, staggering, and then Padawan Kenobi grabs him by the wrist and neck and forces him down.

‘ _Yield_?’ He offers.

Kenolto struggles. ‘ _No_!’

Padawan Kenobi twists his arm back. ‘ _Yield_.’ He presses.

Kenolto growl into the matts, and Kenobi twists just a little more, until he keens. ‘ _Fine. I Yield! Don’t snap it!_ ’

‘ _I wasn’t going to_!’ Padawan Kenobi protests, letting him go and standing up, though he wobbles a little, bruised albeit not bloody. ‘ _I was going to slam your head down. A busted lip is better than a broken arm_.’

‘ _Whatever_.’ His opponent replies angrily, stiff with aching pride, and stalks off. Padawan Kenobi sighs, and Yaddle shakes her head.

~*~

‘ _Oh, here we go_.’ Obi-Vell comments, watching the next opponent stalk up in much the same kind of snit as the last one left.

‘ _Oh_?’

‘ _Kenhet_.’ Obi-Vell huts her chin in the next challengers direction. ‘ _Ignorantly derided Obi-Wan’s abilities after a poor display of tact towards his friend. They did a wonderful job of offending each other._ ’ She reports.

‘ _Ah_.’ Ben nods, eyeing the newcomer, who was older than the last two, but not so old as the first. He looked particularly displeased to be in his position. He is wary when he faces Obi-Wan, but Ben has the sense that he is not particularly patient, which will do him no favors against his padawan.

Obi-Wan is eyeing him warily in turn. Ben can visibly see the older contestants discomfort. He has the build of a disciplined athlete, and if he could get over his discomfort with Obi-Wan’s youth and strangeness, perhaps this would be an interesting bout.

Obi-Wan waits, and the audience waits, the two opponents locked in standstill.

Kenhet shifts forward, just slightly. Obi-Wan shifts sideways, just slightly. The blood trickling from his brow had dried into a red half-ring to the corner of his eye, and he’s holding himself more stiffly for the sharp hits his last opponent landed.

They both move in to a feitn at the same time and still, motions half-complete, before drawing back. Ben waits for Kenhet to lose patience. He can see it on the older contestants face, a gritting, rising snarl on his face and in his posture.

In the breathe before Ben senses he is about to break, Obi-Wan moves, snapping himself forward into a full body-check that sends the other man reeling back, and Obi-Wan presses forward again, in a slamming push, and pushes, and pushes, until Kenhet is not stumbling and retreating but tripping, falling on the matts. Ben expects his padawan to follow, to subdue, but he doesn’t. He stops, stares down at Kenhet, and pulls back, waiting.

Kenhet’s face flushes a blotchy, furious red, and he throws himself back to his feet and comes after Obi-Wan with a vengeance. Obi-Wan ducks a straight jab and slams his palm into an extended elbow before ducking again and dodging forward. Kenhet grabs for him, and catches the collar of his tunic, wrenching him back.

Obi-Wan jerks back like a floppy doll, and choked yelp echoing off the marble pillars, but lost against the audience. Kenhet gets an arm around his neck, and Ben tenses at the cold flash of panic he gets from his padawan before training overrides instinct. Obi-Wan reaches up, grabs Kenhet by the hair, takes a firm grasp of the arm around his neck, and buckles his own weight, throwing the other man over his shoulder.

Several members of the audience wince at the forced-out wheeze the impact produces.

Kenhet is on the ground again, and again Obi-Wan retreats.

‘ _Padawan_ …’Ben warns, glancing at the Lairds, whose speculative gazes are growing irritated at the tableau.

‘I’d hate to think he thought I wasn’t a worthy opponent.’ Obi-Wan sends back, a brittle sort of anger to his thoughts, but under that –

 _\- practically on top of Tsui already, stumbles back in surprise and –_ revolt-disgust _. The same reaction as someone who has just found vermin in their kitchen_. –

Just a flash of memory, jagged and blisteringly insulting.

‘ _Jedi do not seek vengeance_.’ Ben reiterates firmly, well aware of his irony. ‘ _Not even for our friends. You won’t change this man by humiliating him, and I don’t think you’ll make anyone feel better either. Not Tsui. Not yourself_.’

Obi-Wan’s mental presence still burns.

‘ _Obi-Wan_.’ Ben frowns. ‘ _Do it honorably. Don’t respond to insult with dishonor. Especially not in Tsui’s name_.’

Finally, grudgingly. ‘ _Yes, master_.’

Ben sighs, moving to run a hand through his hair and catching his fingers on the hem of his hood instead.

Kenhet has regained his feet, fists clenched, face flushed, but he doesn’t repeat his mad charge of earlier. Obi-Wan stares back at him defiantly.

This time, it’s slow. Kenhet presses forward just a little, testing, and Obi-Wan doesn’t budge, and doesn’t flinch for the false lunges either. Jut out of proper range, Kenhet swings, and Obi-Wan blocks, plants his foot right next to the inside of Kenhet’s balance, twists under, traps his hand, and flips him again. This time, Kenhet pulls him down too.

Obi-Wan lets himself roll, though Ben can feel a flare of pain when his right hand hits badly, grinding the fractures phalange. There is a brief wrestling match, but Obi-Wan manages to slip free after boxing Kenhet on the ears. He grabs him by the hand, digs his fingers into a pressure point, and twists at the wrist until it looks unnatural. ‘ _Yield_.’ He offers, mental projection flat.

Kenhet twists to relieve the pressure on his wrist and then wrenches, using his other hand to pry Obi-Wan’s grip off. Ben doesn’t doubt that he just sprained the joint in question with that maneuver, but he has freed himself, and both of them jump back to their feet. Kenhet jabs, barely missing Obi-Wan’s ear, and Obi-Wan dodges jerkily.

They glare at each other, and Obi-Wan lunges. It’s a messy, tight collide, where Kenhet tries to evade and then changes his mind. He unbalances himself, and Obi-Wan lays a hand on the top of his head, another on his neck, and slams Kenhet’s face into Obi-Wans rising knee.

Winces all around.

Kenhet cups his hands to his mouth, blood drooling out, and feels absolutely pissed.

‘ _I was wrong_.’ He projects, an emotional snarl of _anger-pain-embarrassment-honor_. ‘ _You were a worthy opponent_.’

‘ _I know_.’ Obi-Wan responds sharply, and then glances at his master and lowers his gaze. ‘ _So were you_.’ He adds, managing to seem sincere, for all that Ben could feel that Obi-Wan did not forgive the man the insult to his friend.

‘ _Well done, Padawan_.’

‘ _Ugh_.’ Obi-Wan lifts his gaze to scowl in Ben’s direction.

Obi-Vell tracks Kenhet’s departure with a scowl of her own, and watches as the bloody matts are again replaced, taken away to be cleaned. ‘ _Four down, one to go_.’ She projects measuredly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What....possessed me.....to try and write....this much unarmed combat. It is just....not my preferred form of combat. Nor something I find easy to write.  
> Cheers, everybody.


	27. Chapter 27

Obi-Wan’s last opponent is a young woman with flaring curls of a red so dark and deep it nearly looked purple. She’s a slip of a woman, her gaze cool and grudging, and Obi-Wan breathes carefully as he steps onto the matts, quelling his own pain and discomfort and letting the Force flow through him.

When she steps onto the matts, his eyes widen, because the Force flows through her too. Not so deliberately, and there is no corona of presence he is used to around the Jedi, but there is a sort of light that is seeped into her skin, into her muscles and bones, almost like…almost like a Healer’s trance.

‘ _She’s using the Force to augment her own body_.’ Obi-Wan sends to his master.

‘ _Are you going to protest_?’ Master Ben inquires, and Obi-Wan glances over to see his master studying the woman carefully. ‘ _She seems…self-taught, but her technique is impressive, if crude. She may not even realize what exactly she’s doing_.’

‘ _I’m not going to protest_.’ Obi-Wan responds, barely catching himself from rolling his eyes. ‘ _That would be ridiculous, considering_.’

Obi-Wan’s not looking, but he can practically feel the way his master’s left brow twitches up at that, a sort of blunt, sarcastic acknowledgement.

When the match starts, her foot comes up so quickly there is no time to think but act, and she only just misses his chin as he lurches back. _Fast_ , Obi-Wan thinks, taking a breath and watching her, her stance ready, her gaze narrowed – watching him.

 _If that’s how you want it_. Obi-Wan spins, drawing his leg in a sweeping arc as he turns, and she ducks under. He completes the turn, plants his foot as it comes down, and launches forward.

She pops him dead on the ribs with a closed fist.

Air wheezes out of his lung and his balance tips – he lets it, and falls backwards into a roll, coming back up to his feet with a little distance, ready for her when she closes fast, this time aiming for his face with short jabs of her fists. He dodges one and blocks the other with his arm, planting his foot over hers in the same motion.

She jerks, hindered, and Obi-Wan brings his arm up to slam her jaw with the flat side of his elbow. She jerks her face away and manages to yank her foot free of his weight, teetering backwards. Obi-Wan darts, sweeping one foot around her ankle and throwing her over. She hits the matts with a grunt and he moves to pin her down only to himself fall – literally – for the same trick. His back hits the matts and she’s on him.

‘ _Yield_?’ She inquires, her mental presence almost sweet, in contrast to her outward expression.

Obi-Wan grits his teeth. _Don’t think about it_ , he tells himself.

He slams his head into hers, but it’s a bad angle and a bad aim – his already abused brow bruises her cheekbone with a crush of pain, but nothing more. Her weight shifts and her hold loosens, instinctively moving to cover the pain on her face, and Obi-Wan throws her, rolling with her weight to pin her down.

She slaps him, a full clap across the face, and Obi-Wan grunts and tries to get hold of one of her arms, because he’d rather force a yield than draw blood. She’s flexible, though. She brings a leg up and manages to dig her heel into the side of his neck. Obi-Wan stops trying to pin her hands and grabs her ankle – she grabs his tunic and yanks him down before he can do the same to her leg, and then shoves him off. She bolts to her feet, and then charges him as he’s getting up.

They hit shoulder to shoulder, slamming together – him braced and her full-tilt, with Force-enhanced strength and all the speed her stride could pull.

There is a sickening pop, and they both tumble to the matts, Obi-Wan with an aborted scream and her with a breathless gasp of pain. Her shoulder hangs wrong, the joint dislocated, and Obi-Wan bites down and bites down. He thinks his collarbone is broken. He breathes in – _shallowly_ , trying to numb himself to the pain – and sits up in one fast motion.

She doesn’t, groaning in pain and gingerly reaching for her shoulder.

‘ _Yield_?’ Obi-Wan asks, when he thinks his mental clarity won’t be blaring with his injury.

‘ _I’m not an idiot_.’ She projects exasperatedly. ‘ _I yield_.’

‘ _Thank fuck_!’ Obi-Wan exhales in relief, and lets himself slump in pain.

‘ _Oh damn all your ancestors – I should have asked_ you _to yield_!’ She curses, and Obi-wan snickers, mentally reaching for his master, who is shortly standing over him and sighing, arms crossed.

‘ _Language, Padawan_.’

~*~

Obi-Wan attends the buffet feast the Court hosts later that evening with a black eye and a sling, but the mood in the Force is buoyant, and the various clan envoys seem to be mixing well, all chatter regarding the bouts with either exaggerated or exacting detail. Obi-Wan gets to see some holos of the bouts before his own – the best ones, at least, and his master and his sister argue fervently over the caliber of some of the contestants. Obi-Wan is glad they’re getting along.

‘ _Full, are you, Padawan Kenobi_?’ Yaddle inquires, walking up to his place at the table leading Mog by the hand. The youngling looks intrigued in the goings on around him, but he also looks very sleepy. He sleeps a lot. Yaddle says he’ll grow out of it in a decade or so.

‘ _I am, Master Yaddle_.’ Obi-Wan replies, smiling. ‘ _Did you try the pickled fish-cheeks_?’

‘ _Delicious, it was_.’ Yaddle smiles, ears perked.

‘ _Not exactly my opinion, but I am glad you enjoyed them, master_.’ Obi-Wan replies, and reaches for his master with his right hand, tugging on his sleeve to get his attention. Master Ben lifts a stalling two fingers to Obi-Vell, and turns.

‘ _One more matter, there is, for us to attend._ ’ Yaddle looks to them both. ‘ _Our purpose here, fulfill, we shall_.’

‘ _Master Yaddle, where’s Tsui_?’

‘ _A youngling’s game, drawn into, he was_.’ Yaddle replies, her eyes lidding briefly, her focus elsewhere. ‘ _Having fun, he is_.’ She reports.

Obi-Wan chews on his lower lip for a moment, and Yaddle focuses on him. ‘ _A good friend, you are, to my padawan. Worry for him, you do. But close-minded, not all are. Safe, he is. Well, he is. Enjoying himself, he is._ ’ She reassures him.

‘ _Thank you, Master Yaddle_.’ Obi-Wan ducks his head, and slips away from the table, falling into step with his master as they trail behind Yaddle.

Advocate Wes is waiting for them in the corridor, and Obi-Wan feels the lazy, buoyant quality to the Force fade some as they leave the feast and the guests behind them, drawing him back to wakefulness and his own anticipation.

The lights in the corridor were dimmed for evening, and Obi-Wan blinks when they transition into a warmly lit room occupied by a small gathering of people. Five Lairds, and who he assumes were a selection of their clansmen. And five younglings, held in various laps or crawling on the floor of in one case trying to climb a bookshelf with a stuffed toy secured between their teeth.

Obi-Wan tenses, swallowing, as all the focus in the room turns and falls on him. He breathes in steadily through his nose, and receives a boost of encouragement and pride from his master, which helps immensely. Sure that his very being expresses calm and certainty, Obi-Wan bows respectfully to the room.

‘ _We have records that the Jedi perform certain tests…but I understand those are for older children_?’ Advocate Wes inquires, part of his attention kept on the younglings in question – none of whom, as his focus implied, was older than three Standard.

‘ _A measure of aptitude, such tests are. Necessary here, they are not. Potential, all your younglings have. Promise, much, there is. But guide Padawan Kenobi, will the Force. Trust him, we shall._ ’ Yaddle replies, and her presence is open to them, vast and old and deeply rooted, like a gnarled tree.

Obi-Wan nods to the elder master and steps forward as kinsmen collect the children and bring them to the center of the room, where cushions and a soft blanket adorns the floor – no doubt were they were before they started exploring, waiting for the Jedi to be fetched.

Obi-Wan kneels down on the edge of the blanket, briefly meeting the eyes of those caring for the children – surprised and unsurprised to see that one of them was his last opponent, her arm also in a sling, but a new light of respect in her gaze.

He turns his focus to the children, starting with the oldest, a little boy around three years old – the one who had been adventurously attempting to climb the bookcase. The little boy looks back curiously, and Obi-Wan settles himself as best he can – without his shields, finding emotional calm, meditative calm, was a tricky and often fruitless experiment, but he was learning. He looks at the little boy, and the little boy looks back curiously, but he doesn’t _feel_ anything beyond that.

Obi-Wan smiles, and the little boy smiles back, before going back to chewing on the ear of his stuffed toy. The next child is an infant in arms, held protectively in the crook of the arm of a man who looks like he would rather not give her up. She’s loud, in his mind, tired and stubbornly resisting it, full of the same _want-want-want-newness_ that all babies were. Obi-Wan glances up at the man holding her, catching his eye and holding his gaze for a moment. He understands, and relief fills his gaze, before he drops it back on the little girl, held protectively in the crook of his arm. If she had been an orphan before this, Obi-Wan has the feeling that she wasn’t one anymore.

The next child is a fussy little boy, maybe a year in age, and Obi-Wan can tell immediately why he is here. There is no color to his mind, no flickering imagery. He is blind. Obi-Wan glances back at his master, worried. There is no call in the Force, no drawing pull, no whisper, but Obi-Wan wants to help him. His people may think his blindness aberrant, but this little boy had the Force. With it, he could see far more without sight than those who lived all their lives in vivid color.

‘ _I’ll see to it_.’ His master assures him, a supportive presence down the bond between them. ‘ _After. We don’t want to confuse them_.’

Obi-Wan meets the eyes of his earlier opponent first, before he looks at the youngling nestled sleepily in her lap.

‘ _Is she your daughter_?’ Obi-Wan asks.

‘ _She is_.’ The young woman nods, the declaration full of love-fondness-heartbreak.

‘ _What is her name_?’ Obi-Wan inquires.

The woman shakes her head, and Obi-Wan wishes he remembered _hers_.

‘ _If my daughter is to go with you_ ,’ She informs him, her intent achingly clear, ‘ _her name will stay with_ me _._ ’

Obi-Wan stares back at her. ‘ _You already know_.’

‘ _So do you_.’ She retorts, thumb brushing over the babies wispy, ruby-red curls.

Obi-Wan wants to ask why, but there is something brittle and burning behind the young mother’s determined gaze, and he bites his tongue.

‘ _The name I gave my daughter is mine to keep_.’ She reiterates, her thoughts fraying. ‘ _But will you tell me the name you have for her_?’

Obi-Wan panics, heart hammering, and receives comforting reassurance from both Master Ben and Master Yaddle. ‘ _I – I don’t have one yet._ ’ His thoughts skip and whirl. He hadn’t even thought about that – he had been allowed to keep his name, so he hadn’t thought –

‘ _Can he hold her_?’ Master Ben inquires softly, in his place.

The mother nods, carefully lifting her child from her lap with her one good arm, cradling her, and then placing her gently against Obi-Wan's sternum, half sprawled in his lap, with a soothing murmur.

Sleepy, half-lidded eyes peer up at him from under dark red lashes, still an undecided blue, and chubby little baby hands twitch and open and close. She’s small, but he thinks she’s closer to a year Standard than to six months. He stares into her face, a rosy flush of her cheeks from warmth, a confused little scowl on her face that makes her look startlingly like her mother had earlier. One of her hands manages to catch his shirt, tugging, and the Force murmurs of stars and forgotten eras and _promise-promise-promise_. Not power, not victory, just…hope, and history.

‘ _I don’t know what your future holds_ ,’ Obi-Wan thinks for her, fond and awestruck. ‘ _but it is sure to be interesting_.’

He glances back at his master. “Ka’ra?” He offers. It was the Mando’a word for stars, but it meant more than that. In ancient Mandalorian myth, the stars were thought to be the burning legacies of the souls of fallen Mand’alor’s, ever watching over their people.

His Master closes his eyes briefly, as if Obi-Wan is too much to deal with.

“That’s a heavy name.” He remarks, opening his eyes and stepping forward to peer down at the little girl. Her impression of him is blurry, the shadow of his hood haloed by the fiery lights above him, and wrapped up in his kindness for her, which she can feel, even if she doesn’t understand it. The baby smiles, and Obi-Wan can feel his master’s heart stutter and soften into goo. “What about…” He hesitates, and Obi-Wan looks up curiously, because his master rarely hesitates in actual hesitance. “Beru.” He offers softly. “Beru Ka’ra.”

Obi-Wan can’t quite encompass the sheer feeling he gets from his master in that moment, which tightens his chest and it isn’t even his, and he nods quietly, dropping his gaze back to the little girl. “That’s a name for legends.” Obi-Wan comments, trying to be distracting. “Beru Ka’ra.” He recites, looking down into her face.

Her gummy smile turns into a laugh.


	28. Chapter 28

‘ _Tell me you are happy_.’ Obi-Vell catches him by the shoulder in  affirm hold and Obi-Wan turns to her, noticing uncertainly that her eyes are watering. ‘ _Tell me I did the right thing_.’

‘ _I am happy_.’ Obi-Wan promises, offering her a small, sincere smile. ‘ _And you did do the right thing_.’

They stare at each other for a minute, searching each other’s gazes, studying each others faces.

‘ _You’re not who imagined you would be_.’ She tells him sadly.

‘ _I’m sorry_.’ Obi-Well feels a similar sadness weigh in his chest, and a sharp stab of disappointment too.

‘ _Don’t be_.’ She refutes fiercely, her grip tightening. ‘ _You are….amazing, little brother. And you are good, through and through. I’m sorry that I’ve…that I have tried to demand more from you than you were prepared to give. We’re siblings, but we’re still strangers. But I am so very glad to have met you. And if I have a right to be proud, than I am so proud of you_.’

Obi-Wan swallows, feeling his own eyes sting, because he can feel what she feels for him, a mess of _pride-longing-joy-grief-relief_ that spills over.

‘ _I…thank you. I’m glad too. That I got to meet you. And – and that you’re proud of me_.’ It occurs to him that they might never meet again, and he lays his hand over hers, his palm warm against her chill fingers. He takes in everything about her – the quirked edge of her sad smile, the way the overcast light reflected off her hair, the authoritive, proud set of her shoulders and her stance. If all he ever has for the rest of his life is a memory of her – well, let it be a good memory.

‘ _Can I hug you_?’ She asks, and Obi-Wan nods shyly before flinching as she throws her arms around him.

She immediately bleeds apology, pulling back for fear of hurting him, and Obi-Wan presses his face into her shoulder, his good arm hugging her side. She kisses the top of his head, and he shivers.

And then Obi-Wan has to walk away, catching his master watching them with an unreadable expression on his face, and a bittersweet cast to his mind.

‘ _Goodbye_.’

~*~

“What did you _do_?” Healer Chias demands, and Ben winces, shuffling his padawan into the Halls of Healing.

Leaving the Nebula had been a quiet, contemplative affair – and exiting it actually painful. Without the overwhelming presence that was the Nebula sheltering their minds and flowing through their thoughts, the galaxy came screaming back in and they couldn’t get their shields up fast enough. They had nursed headaches the whole way home.

Which had not made caring for two uprooted Force-Sensitive younglings any easier. Especially given that Mog and Beru could not be set down next to each other, could not share the same blanket, could not be held by the same person. Beru pulled on his hair, his ears, his clothes, and Mog scratched her with his stubby claws and bit her when she yanked on his springy hair and both of them had screaming fits. Ben would be holding Beru on one side of the room and Yaddle holding Mog on the other and those two younglings just _glared_ at each other.

Not that Ben didn’t adore them both but….

It was a little much when they were all confined to the same small ship.

“Th-there was a contest?” Obi-Wan suggests half-heartedly, as the pantoran healer looms over him and then points sharply towards the nearest open Healing Room. Obi-Wan ducks his head meekly and goes, and Healer Chias turns his glare on Ben.

“You two are not supposed to take turns haunting my roster.” The Healer warns crisply. “That is _not_ how this works. Stop it.” He demands, and then he marches after Obi-Wan, leaving Ben’s apology at loose ends.

“What _did_ he do?” Healer Ni Hiella inquires, the Zeltron striding up to him with a cocked brow and an appraising look.

“Refractured a phalange in his bad hand and fractured his collarbone.” Ben reports.

“Did he get beaten?” Hiella inquires, concerned. “That was a lovely bruise on his face.”

“No, it was a sort of…trial by combat.” Ben explains. “A local tradition regarding adoptions.”

“Yes, I had heard you were on Search.” Ni Hiella nods, smiling faintly before shaking her head at his and Obi-Wan’s combined foolishness. “Two new younglnigs for us – and one of Yoda’s species! Well done.”

“There wasn’t much _doing_ , to be honest.” Ben says lightly. “How have things been while we were away?”

“The Temple wasn’t wrecked by your absence.” She rolls her eyes. “The third series of inoculations for that nasty little outer rim virus seems to be having better results – thank you again for your assistance on that matter.” She tips her head, and Ben feels his lips twitch. “We are still dealing with padawan’s coming in with increased ‘training accidents’ because they are trying to copy your padawan and for which I am entirely blaming you. It’s one thing for it to be fifteen year olds with more daring than wits, but when it’s the twenty-year olds on the cusp of knighthood….” She shakes her head again, this time with more ferver. “Ridiculous. I won’t miss it.”

“Miss it?” Ben turns, frowning in concern. She waves a hand.

“Chief Healer Quoorup retired, officially.” She grins, a little self-indulgent. “And I insured dear, sweet, darling Vokara got the job. Force knows I didn’t want to be the administration for this madhouse of ours.”

Ben snorts.

“And now that Essja’s knighted….” She sighs, blowing up and ruffling her fringe. “I feel at loose ends. I’m not very good with that feeling.” She remarks. “There’s a positing on the Outer Rim I’m looking at taking. Less resources, terrible funding, undoubtedly outdated equipment and inadequate facilities but…I can do _more_ good there, than being just another pair of hands here.”

“Don’t.” Ben blurts out, surprising her.

“Ben?” She frowns.

In his other when, Ben hadn’t known Healer Ni Hiella, but he had known _of_ her – that she and Vokara Che were counterparts, that she had won the passive-aggressive campaign of letters of commendation to get Vokara elected as Chief Healer of the Halls when Quoorup retired, and that she had taken a long posting on the outer rim, which had claimed her life long before the clone wars. Vokara had told him of her, once, on one of the bad days, the sad days, when the wounded were too many and the healers not enough.

 _“What I wouldn’t give, to have her here.”_ Vokara had crumpled, over a bottle of rylothi black gin, and then sighed tiredly into her hands, shaking from too many stim tabs. “ _She’d have been ready for this. We weren’t. We just…”_

“Take another padawan. Take two.” Ben insists. “But don’t take this assignment. Please.”

“Ben.” She pauses, taken aback, and studies his face. She reaches up and cups his cheek, and he knows she can feel what he’s feeling as an aspect of her species, and he hopes it’s enough to convince her.

“What I would not give,” She sighs. “to ensure I never see what you have seen, my dear, stupid friend. _Fine_.” She agrees, a wary light in her eyes as she draws her hand away. “I won’t go. For now.”

Ben feels his eyes fall shut and nods gratefully. “Thank you.”

When he opens them again, she is staring at him with an uncertainty he would never expect from her, a chillingly similar look to what Shaak Ti had given him in one of their last conversation before this mission, half-forgotten.

He swallows tightly, sorry for it, for what he does to them without meaning to.

“Don’t feel so guilty, Ben.” She asks of him, her expression clearing, resolving back into her usual self. “I’m due for my lunch break and it makes me nauseated.”

Ben huffs, but his mood does lift with her careful, cajoling presence in the Force and her less careful sense of humor.

~*~

Master Naasade isn’t really all that hard to find, Quinlan thinks. He’s thought it before, but there was a difference between finding someone through rumor and sightings and finding someone through the Force.

But when Naasade was in the crèche?

Really, really easy.

It wasn’t that he had a vast presence – he was contained, tightly so, constantly – but there was just so much pressure to what was contained, escpecialy when he was in the crèche, and playing with the younglings, and as close to happy as he ever felt, that the entire crèche seemed to expand with it, the light and joy and energy there tricking brightly out into the rest of the Temple.

Quinlan had been happy to see Obi-Wan back in the Temple, drawn to the lure of him and all the light he promised like a compass drawn to magnetic north. Being around Obi-Wan made just being what he was…simpler, somehow. Maybe because Obi-Wan didn’t expect anything different from him. Everyone else was…difficult. They expected him to fail, to be trapped and lost in the Dark Side, or they expected him to fight, constantly, scrabbling and digging his way out of it and towards the light with every moment and breath and thought, as if he wouldn’t break himself trying. But Obi-Wan just…expected him to be Quinlan. And some days he had good days and some days he had bad days and some days were just…dark, in a way that there was no fighting it.

Mater Tholme wasn’t bad. He was understanding, and he’d try anything, do anything he could for Quinlan, but sometimes all his doing and all his trying just made Quinlan hurt.

And Aayla was different. Aayla didn’t have anything to do with good days of bad days or expectations. She was just…untouchable, and undaunted.

But Obi-Wan just…let him be, and tried to help him _be_ in a way that Quinlan could live with.

He finds Master Naasade in a smaller playroom, empty except for himself and the youngling he was holding, gently swaying. The walls were covered in cartoonish paintings of creatures from all across the galaxy, and the domed ceiling had a backlit display and shifted periodically through different star systems. It was both decorative and educational – the room itself was a game, for younglings to find on the walls the creatures that belonged to the depicted star system.

“Obi-Wan told me you named her Beru.” Quinlan says, slipping into the playroom and letting the door swick shut behind him. Master Naasade pauses, glancing over, and then continues swaying. “Do you want to talk about it?” Quinlan asks. “With…Quin?”

“Even with all the memories you have, you aren’t really…” Master Naasade shakes his head. “It’s kind of you.”

“I know I’m not him.” Quinlan shrugs, finding himself a cushion to plop down on as he finds the windows in his mind, arraying them as he wants them – not something he was necessarily supposed to do, but it made things easier, to keep Quin close to the surface and things like Maul distant. “But I’m the best of what you’ve got of what you had. Do you want to talk about it?” He asks again.

“About what?” Ben sighs, finding a cushion himself to sink into, cradling Beru against his chest, her ruby-red curls almost glowing for their hue and shine, nothing like Obi-Wan’s red-auburn or Ben’s faded cinnamon locks.

“About the fact that you were in love with a woman married to someone else?” Quinlan suggests, not meaning it sound as callous as it does. “She loved you too, you know.”

“That is a platitude I do not need.” Ben snaps warningly, and Quinlan clenches his fists, narrowing his eyes at the older man.

“I’m not saying she was going to leave her husband and run off into the dunes with you, you prick.” Quinlan grits out. “But I am saying she loved you.”

He has memories of her – Ben’s memories, all careworn and guilty – but her own too. He’d fallen asleep at her table more than once, or on her couch, with Luke draped on his chest, and she was a clever woman – she never let him sleep with his lightsaber. She’d take it off his belt and tuck it out of the way somewhere, near at hand, but no so near he’d hurt himself of someone else while trapped in a dream.

And his dreams were terrible. She’d sing to him, sometimes, while he slept, humming lullabies – the same lullabies she hummed for Luke, and Owen, and the runaway slaves she cradled in the dark, hiding them before they moved on to the next place, soothing what hurts she could before they vanished as quietly as they had come. It worked almost every time. Almost every time.

“I was depressed, borderline suicidal, half out of my mind and drunk more often than I wasn’t. She did _not_.” Ben protests vehemently, keeping his voice down so as not to wake the youngling in his arms.

Quinlan breathes out slowly, flexing his fingers, stretching his gloves. “You were _broken_.” He say flatly, because there is no one in the universe who could deny that. “But you were still a gentle man. You barely spoke to her for an entire year but that doesn’t mean you didn’t _speak_ to her.” Quinlan sprawls across his cushion, loosening his limbs and eyeing the other man sharply, as Ben seemed to draw in on himself.

“She knew you kept the Tuskens off their farm. She caught you more than once watching over them from the dunes. You weren’t exactly subtle about leaving them extra water, either. You were kind. And you listened to her, when she told you stories, with a kind of soul-deep need and bleeding empathy that was addictive. And you loved so deeply that it shattered you, and she saw it every time you looked at Luke.” Quinlan scoffs. “Maybe half your life you were only the pretend façade of a perfect Jedi, Ben, but you are a _good_ man, and on most worlds that matters a hell of a lot more. It mattered to her.”

Ben shifts uncomfortably, face pale. “Oh.” He utters.

“Maybe she wasn’t _in_ love with you.” Quinlan softens his voice, trying to be kinder. “But she did love you.”

She was also terrified for him, and angry at him – Beru Whitesun had felt nothing by halves, even only as an afterimage – and there had been a terrible dread lodged in her breast when she watched him sleep, the same dread that dug into her ribcage when she waited and waited in his long absences, wondering if he’d finally just slipped away into sand and memory. She’d grieved him once, when the absence drew too long, and Quinlan has the opposite memory of that too – her screaming at Ben from his side of the picture, furious at his carelessness and too damn grateful that he _had_ come back.

But that isn’t what Ben _needs_ to know. That isn’t what drives him to name a little girl after the ghost of a woman who hasn’t become herself yet.

“She wasn’t the only one.” Quinlan adds, when Ben seems to be close to reconciling himself.

“What?” He looks confused, and Quinlan finds him annoyingly exasperating. Quin’s Ben hadn’t been like this – so….distant and unmoored. He’d been fussy and determinate and flirtatious. He hadn’t been afraid of the world.

Obi-Wan won’t be like that. Like either of them, and Quinlan swallows tightly. Ben misses people who will never be again who he remembers they were, and when Quinlan looks at him, knowing who he _was_ , he understands that feeling perfectly, and it aches.

“Bail and Breha Organa?” Quinlan lifts a brow. “Ring any bells?”

There are others he could mention, but their memories can’t be separated between the joy and the pain of them. Satine Kryze, for one. Siri. Cody, though it wasn’t the same kind of love and nothing ever came of it. Quin. Anakin. Ben hadn’t loved anyone easily, but he had loved so many and all of them uniquely and too damn deeply.

Ben gives him a flat, impatient look, and Quinlan smirks.

“I know for a fact you slept with Bail Organa –“

“There is no way you have a memory of that!” Ben hisses, ears turning red. Quinlan doesn’t, but he has enough clues in the memories he does have to know it was certainly something between them.

“And I know you would have slept with Breha-“

“I would – the _Queen of Alderaan_ –

“She certainly tried, I mean, she and her husband have an understanding, you know? Alderaani marriages are more about names and lineages than uh…fidelity.” Quinlan snickers. “And she was rather jealous he hadn’t shared.”

Ben’s mouth is working, but no words are coming out, and he just looks….pained.

Quinlan rolls his eyes. “You made her sad.” Quinlan says. He only has one or two memories of Breha Organa, unclipping the lightsaber from Obi-Wan’s belt, because the Organa’s were clever too, and knew the same things Beru knew. “You were one of her and Bail’s dearest friends. It wasn’t even really about lust.” Quinlan looks away, up at the domed ceiling and the display of stars. “It was more about comfort. They could see you losing yourself. You, and all the Jedi with you, and they just wanted to hold on to you.”

Quinlan has seen this memory from several sides, and it’s a trick getting them to work together, but the brain is a marvelous thing. It will trick itself, if you let it. More than once during the clone wars Ben would visit their apartments on Coruscant, or their palace on Alderaan, though social visits or even mandatory meditated leave was always, always cut short, and too often invaded by matters of the war. They watched him grow harder, and wearier, the longer it all dragged one. He’d even half fall asleep in the midst of a conversation. When it weighed too heavy, on all of them, they’d shuffle him into their rooms with only fleeting protests, seeking what escapes they could. Breha had gotten as far as kissing him once and he was out like a light. She’d sighed, disappointed, and unclipped his lightsaber, cradling it in her palms for a moment.

She hadn’t loved him like the others loved him. She’d loved him less because he was a good man and more because he loved Bail as much as she did, and because he fought for innocents and for good cause and he suffered for it. Breha loved the sharper edges of his intellect and the burning glances of his righteous anger, and she loved him because he was her friend, and he was real, and alive, and life was painful.

“Do you have a point, Quinlan?” Ben asks quietly, unnerved.

Quinlan sighs, rubbing at his cheek before letting his hand flop down. He looks at the child in Ben’s arms, content and full of future promise, bearing a name she’d never know the real meaning of.

“It’s okay to hold on to them, Ben. You loved and were loved by them.” Quinlan says. “But don’t forget the rest of us that are still right in front of you. We love you too, you know.”

“You love the memory of me, and the rest of you love half a lie.”

“Okay, maybe I don’t love you.” Quinlan snaps. “But I do kind of _like_ you. At least, I like the master who teaches padawans how to play sabacc and makes up crazy training exercises and wipes the floor with every other knight and saw a dozen ghosts behind my eyes without ever once losing sight of _me_. Don’t be such a karking asshole.”

Ben winces, and Beru starts fussing, even in her sleep. Quinlan gives him a dirty look, and the man starts looking miserable.

“I’m not – I don’t have the best opinion of myself.” He apologizes. “This is – difficult for me.”

“What, really?” Quinlan drawls nastily. “We’re all a little kriffed up. Work on it.” He shoves himself upright and stalks towards the door with a huff, pretty sure he got his message across, maybe.

“Quinlan.” Ben calls after him.

Quinlan pauses.

“I like you too.”

Yeah, he did alright.

“And…I’m trying. If you don’t mind helping remind me sometimes…” Ben trails off when Quinlan just stands there at the door, no turning around.

“Yeah.” He says jauntily. “We’ll start a club.”

“We?” Ben questions warily.

“What, you expect me to do all the work? You need a lot of minding. That’s why we have friends.” Smiling, Quinlan lopes out of the room.

The door doesn’t close until after he hears Ben sigh deeply, the sigh of a man resigned to the machinations of others.

 _We’ll do better_. Quinlan promises himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Way heavier than I thought this would be.....
> 
> Next story up soon!
> 
> ALSO: The english language having only one word for love is inadequate. Like...ugh. We should have borrowed more words from Greek. Or German. Or maybe it's just the persisting puritan idea of love being solely sexual-romantic that screws american culture over, but I digress.


End file.
